


run through the world with me

by majesdane



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst and Feels, Background Character Death, Blood Drinking, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Minor Character Death, Sex, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: In the autumn of 1988, Raelle Collar meets the enigmatic Scylla Ramshorn. Scylla is gorgeous and brilliant, and Raelle becomes immediately infatuated with her. But, unbeknownst to everyone, Scylla's flirtatious charm beguiles a dark secret.(Or, aCarmillainspired AU.)
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 66
Kudos: 220





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Carmilla_ is absolutely one of my favorite pieces of media ever. The novella is nearest and dearest to my heart, but I have also eagerly consumed every single adaption ― many of which I have drawn inspiration from for this story. The main source for this fic is the original novella itself, but other versions (such the webseries, _The Moth Diaries_ , and _The Curse of Styria_ ) are major influences as well. You don't have to be familiar with the novella to read this, but some references will be better understood if you are.

that has to mean something. that has to mean that our souls were destined for one another.  
― _millcara_ , holly black

love has subjugated me: / to me this is no surprise, / for she is strong and i am weak.  
― hadewijch (tr. mother columba hart)

* * *

**  
KITTERY, ME | OCTOBER 1998   
**

_It's night, and she's hungry._

_She's used to the gnaw of hunger; her father worked hard to provide for them, but their village was small with few resources, and winters were always grueling. Food was often scarce, especially on years when the harvests went bad from early frosts. When they could, the foraged or hunted; sometimes that was enough. Many times though, she went to bed with a scrap of bread and dried meat for dinner._

_But tonight's hunger is different._

_And only one thing will satiate her._

Raelle sighs, sitting back in her chair and rubbing at her tired eyes. The word processor in front of her flickers and hums, the only dim light in the otherwise darkened room. She's been writing for hours now, holed up in her attic study with the door closed. A fit of inspiration overtook her earlier that day and she'd been determined to work through it. 

She glances at the clock: it's nearly seven thirty; she should head downstairs for dinner. Her stomach growls at the thought, as if in acknowledgement. 

She takes care to save the document twice — one copy on the desktop and another on her usual back-up floppy disk — before switching the computer off, and climbing to her feet, the chair scraping against the worn wood flooring.

As she pads down the winding staircase, her mind drifts back to her book. 

Her book, and the girl.

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | AUTUMN OF 1988**

It's a crisp early autumn morning in the first week of October when Raelle, late for class and sprinting across campus, accidentally slams into a girl coming out of the student center.

The girl lets out a surprised yelp as they tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Her little Styrofoam cup of coffee goes flying; a few warm droplets splash against Raelle's face. She wipes them away before scrambling to her feet, face hot with embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

The girl leans up on her elbows and blinks at Raelle, looking dazed. "I think so."

She reaches for Raelle's extended hand, climbing to her feet.

Raelle awkwardly moves to gather the girl's scattered belongings as the girl brushes herself off, running a hand through her hair. 

"Here," Raelle says sheepishly, handing the books and notepad over. "I'm really sorry about that." She takes a step back, rubbing the back of her neck. "I'm late for class and — sorry." She glances down to where the coffee cup has rolled onto the grass, now empty, its contents splattered all over the stone walkway. "I can buy you a new coffee. If you want."

The girl eyes her with an amused expression. "I thought you said you were late for class?"

When she speaks, it's with a light, playful tone that betrays the hint of an indeterminable accent. It's charming. And now that Raelle's looking at her properly and not just through a haze of embarrassment, she can't help but notice how beautiful she is. Her dark hair, parted on one side, falls in gentle waves to her shoulders; its sharp contrast with her delicately pale complexion brings out her brilliant eyes.

They're like no color Raelle's ever seen before: as deep and blue as the waters in some faraway land, only seen in postcards or in paintings. There's an ethereal quality to them — but familiar, too, somehow. Like something Raelle dreamed a long time ago. 

It's only after a minute that Raelle realizes she's staring.

She quickly averts her eyes, flushing again. 

"Well." She shoves her hands in her pockets. She's always had a weakness for pretty girls; this girl is apparently no exception. She glances at the large iron-wrought clock that stands in the center of the courtyard near the student center. "It's already ten past. No point going now, is there?"

The girl laughs. "You're a very dedicated student, I see."

Raelle grins, relaxing a little. "Typically more so than today. Honestly!" she adds, when the girl raises a skeptical eyebrow. "I was up late last night writing a paper."

She'd dozed off at her desk half a dozen times before groggily relenting and crawling into bed. She forgot to set her alarm, and Tally and Abigail hadn't thought to wake her; Raelle's first class was an hour after theirs. 

The girl considers this for a moment, still grinning. "Well," she says, "in that case, I accept your invitation." She offers her hand for Raelle to shake. "I'm Scylla."

"Raelle."

Scylla's hand is faintly cool to the touch.

Cool and smooth, like marble.

*

After coffee, Scylla invites Raelle to join her in the library.

And then, two days later, to a party.

She leans in Raelle's doorway, looking pleased with herself. "You didn't tell me what room was yours," she says, as Raelle ushers her inside. "I had to sit around in the common room waiting for someone who knew you. I think I met one of your floormates. Short, brown hair, smiles a lot?"

"Oh, that's Glory," Raelle says, perching on her desk and watching as Scylla surveys the room. "She's Tally's — one of my roommates — friends from back home, actually. From California. San Francisco."

Raelle was assigned to one of the rare triple rooms in their dormitory. As an only child she wasn't particularly enthused about the idea of sharing her living space with _one_ other person, let alone two. But it hasn't actually been all that bad so far. Tally's sweet, if occasionally a little too energetic for Raelle's tastes. Even Abigail — every inch the stereotypical New England prep with her pastel sweaters and collared shirts — isn't all that bad, when she remembers how to have fun.

At any rate, it's good to have made friends, even if they only get along out of convenience.

Raelle's used to always being alone. Back in South Carolina, her social life consisted almost entirely of her lacrosse team. She'd climbed into the backs of beat-up pickup trucks with them and eaten greasy slices of pizza after practice at the one restaurant downtown and gotten tipsy on cheap, watery beer at the football team's bonfires in the fields on the weekends.

But wasn't _friendship_.

She hasn't had a real friend in ages.

It's partially her own fault; she's never liked opening up to people. No one's ever _known_ her. Not really. Not down to the deepest parts of her secret heart. Not even Tally and Abigail; they only know her superficially: her talent for lacrosse, the military mom who'd died a few years earlier; her Southern drawl, molasses-slow. 

But superficial is all she can allow herself for now; there's just some things that Raelle can't quite say. 

Scylla hums a non-committal sound. She trails her fingers over the top of the guitar case tucked away between Tally and Raelle's bunk-beds and one of the room's standard maple wood closets. "Do you play?"

"Only a little."

"I'd like to hear it sometime," Scylla remarks thoughtfully, folding her hands behind her back. "If you wouldn't mind."

Raelle nods. She's still trying to come to terms with the fact that Scylla bothered to track her down — nevermind anything else. When they'd spent the day in the library — after Raelle apologetically bought Scylla a new coffee — Raelle had just been pleased to be able to steal a few more hours with such a beautiful girl. Even though they'd left things with a _see you around!_ , Raelle didn't actually think they'd ever run into each other again.

But here Scylla is now, standing in her dorm room, the invitation to the party still lingering in the air.

"So it's tonight?" she asks. "The party?"

"That's right. It's a joint fraternity-sorority thing, I know some people in both. They don't mind if I bring a plus one." Scylla twirls a strand of hair around her finger, sitting down at the edge of the lower bunk bed — _Raelle's_ bed; Raelle's brain short-circuits for a moment at the thought — and crossing her legs. Her smile is charming, unguarded. There's a tiny gleam in her eyes. "Unless . . . you'd rather not?"

She says it lightly, but Raelle's struck with the impression Scylla really wants her to say yes. If Raelle didn't know better, she might be inclined to believe Scylla's flirting. 

There's positively no way someone as gorgeous and magnetic as Scylla could possibly be into her. Raelle's painfully aware of her messy hair and worn, hand-me-down clothes. Besides, what are the chances she should meet someone else who likes girls? Her whole life she's only ever known one other person like herself. 

Those facts don't keep her from wanting to say _yes_ , though. And they don't keep her from thinking about surging forward and pressing Scylla onto the mattress with a heady kiss. So, despite any and all logic, she finds herself agreeing to join Scylla that evening. 

She adopts the most cool, disaffected tone she can manage, shifting in place. "Yeah, sure. Alright. Why not?"

"Great!" Scylla bounds up. She beams at Raelle. "It's a date." A wink. "I'll come by around nine." 

And just like that, she's gone, the door shutting behind her with a soft _click_.

Raelle blinks, remembering the playful grin on Scylla's face. The way her hand lingered on Raelle's shoulder for the briefest of moments as she skirted by where Raelle sat. 

Her mouth is dry. Her skin buzzes. 

*

"A frat party?" Abigail leans back in her chair, worrying the cap of her pen with her teeth. There's a twinge of jealousy in her voice, but she tempers it with a soft look and an eyebrow raised curiously. "How'd you manage _that_?"

Raelle shrugs, looking herself over in the mirror for the twelfth time in the past hour. She owns only one halfway dressy shirt — a checkered navy blue button-down with a white nautical print — which she's dutifully ironed and paired with her nicest pair of jeans, the cuffs rolled up to the tops of her Vans.

"I told you about that girl I ran into yesterday," she mutters, fidgeting with her collar. "She came by this afternoon while you two were in class. Asked me if I wanted to come along."

For a second Abigail looks like she wants to press the issue, but she thankfully doesn't, humming a non-committal sound and turning back to her homework. Raelle's hyper aware of how much she's fussed over herself getting ready for Scylla; she's certain that her newfound crush is embarrassingly obvious. 

Pushing that thought aside, Raelle turns back to her reflection, combing her hands through her hair. She normally ties it back into a single messy braid, but tonight she's opted to wear it down. It falls just to her shoulders with the tiniest wave. She hopes she looks presentable enough; she knows Scylla will look effortlessly lovely, just like she has the other two times they've been together. 

Maybe she should put on some lipstick —

— maybe it's not too late to cancel?

Tally, flopped down on Raelle's bed, looks up from the romance novel she's been working her way through all week. "You look _fine_ ," she comments, as if reading Raelle's mind. She glances at the clock on Raelle's nightstand before sighing wistfully, letting her book drop onto her stomach. "I wish _I_ was going to a party tonight."

"Sorry," Raelle says apologetically. 

If it were any other situation, Raelle would have asked Scylla if her two roommates could tag along. For one thing, they're much better in social situations than she is. Abigail is _Abigail_ ; she wears her blueblood family name like a badge of honor, and Raelle's certain that come the end of term she'll be a sorority girl, too. Tally's bubbly personality is infectious, and growing up on a hippie commune has only made her more determined to have the quintessential freshman year experience. 

But Raelle's _really_ looking forward to getting to spend some more time with Scylla. Having her new kinda-best friends hanging around is guaranteed to put a damper on things. 

Not that she thinks there's any _thing_ at all going on.

Probably not, anyway.

*

The party's boring.

But Scylla's not — she's amazing. On their way to the party, Scylla passes Raelle a shiny flask. Raelle takes a giant swig and then immediately regrets it, coughing. The alcohol burns all the way down; her eyes water a tiny bit. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, grimacing. 

"Moonshine," Scylla explains with an amused smile, plucking the flask from Raelle's grip. "I thought a country girl like you would be able to handle it." 

A little while later, Raelle watches her dart through the crowd; she hands Raelle a red Solo cup full of vodka-spiked punch. Raelle sips cautiously as she watches Scylla down her own in a few long gulps. She can't help but stare at the line of Scylla's jaw, the bob of her throat as she swallows. 

"Come on," Scylla says after a minute. She takes Raelle's cup, setting it aside on the window sill. And then she reaches for Raelle's hands, tugging gently. "We can get more drinks later. I want to dance now."

Scylla's dressed all in black, from her fold-pleated lantern sleeve blouse — which she's elected to have left unbuttoned as low as possible — to her spool heel shoes. Her hair's down, as usual, soft and glossy. Her lips are painted with bright red lipstick, eyes bluer than usual against pitch-black cat eye makeup. As far as Raelle's concerned, Scylla's the most beautiful girl here; it seems a lot of boys have the same opinion too, judging by the looks Raelle notices as they thread through the crowd.

To say that Raelle's inexperienced in dancing would be an understatement; the last time she ever danced with anyone was at the seventh grade Sadie Hawkins school dance with a boy whose name she can't even remember now. It hadn't been a very pleasant experience. But she doesn't dare confess any of this to Scylla, lest she somehow break whatever spell it is that's made her appealing in Scylla's eyes.

It's not _that_ difficult, as it turns out. She mostly copies what everyone else is doing, grateful for the semi-darkness to obscure any particularly awkward movements. And after a little while, she actually starts to enjoy it — especially when Scylla smiles at her in an open, unabashed way that makes Raelle feel like she could do anything. 

Maybe, even, be brave enough to —

"I'm thirsty," Scylla tells her, as INXS fades into a languid ballad that Raelle doesn't recognize. She leads Raelle to the kitchen and fixes them both a drink that appears to be mostly alcohol, with only a splash of Coke for sweetness.

"Let's go outside," she says, and once more takes Raelle's hand in her own.

For a stupid, lightheaded second, Raelle thinks, _I would follow you anywhere._

She's very glad Scylla's in front of her, so as not to see the blush that springs to her cheeks.

*

They sit and talk on the back porch, having wiped away a thin layer of orange-hued leaves from the wicker bench and table set that Raelle believes probably makes for a charming little tableau during warmer weather. It's not _too_ cold out — or perhaps it's just the alcohol and the proximity to Scylla that's making Raelle think that. She's got the tiniest bit of a buzz going, and it gives her a kind of loose-limbed confidence during their conversation.

Raelle's learned only three things about her so far:

The first is that Scylla's a sophomore studying microbiology with a minor in philosophy. The second is that she lives alone in an apartment paid for by her aunt. 

Raelle catches on right away that Scylla's very good at giving non-answers and stealing the conversation away from herself. But she's alright with that; they've only just met and Raelle's not one to pry. She's happy enough to be spending the evening by Scylla's side, listening as Scylla points out stories and explains the mythology behind the constellations.

Which is the third fact about Scylla that Raelle's learned this evening: she loves to read. She quotes lines off the top of her head in the middle of conversation. She references non-fiction texts that sound so patently dry that Raelle thinks she'd fall asleep just reading the dust jacket blurb. And if it were anyone else, Raelle would think they were just showing off, but Scylla makes it seem oddly charming, as if she's not even aware that she's doing it. 

"Oh," Raelle says, when at last she's glanced at her watch. "It's past midnight."

She tries not to sound too dispirited; she's certain that Scylla will want to go home, now that Raelle's brought the hour to her attention. But Scylla says no such thing. Instead, she stands and stretches, leaning on the railing for a long moment as if surveying the night.

Raelle watches her silently, taking in the way the moonlight casts a pale, almost ethereal glow around her frame. Not for the first time, she's in awe of how elegantly beautiful Scylla looks from every angle. She's completely forgotten about the party still going on inside; it's only the whooping of boys out front, laughing while drunkenly heading out that startles her from her reverie.

And then Scylla's turning, she's holding out her hand with a Cheshire cat grin that makes Raelle's stomach do somersaults.

"Come with me," she says. "My place is right nearby."

*

Scylla's apartment is nothing like Raelle imagined, but it fits her perfectly. 

It's the second story of a gorgeous Victorian, converted into a cozy loft apartment with high ceilings. The floors are a rich oak color, worn and scuffed from years of wear. A plush knotted pile rug — crimson background with intricate gold, white, and black patterns — is sprawled out in the center. There's hardly a free inch of space anywhere; old film and concert posters cover the walls, lovingly framed, and there's scattered piles of books everywhere. Three bookcases stand side-by-side, stuffed full.

The bed is in one corner. It's wide with tall, dark bedposts, and piled high with pillows. An Amish-style comforter is draped on top of what Raelle can see are cream-colored sheets edged with navy blue stripes. 

In some ways, it reminds Raelle of her parents' little ranch house back down in South Carolina. It's messy and lived in, and it has a distinctly _homey_ feeling. Scylla seems so put together — from her always perfectly understated curls to her elegant makeup and well-tailored clothes — that it's refreshing to see a more relaxed side of her.

Raelle follows Scylla's suit, kicking off her shoes and shrugging off her coat, hanging it up by the door. 

"Would you like something to drink?" Scylla asks, hovering halfway between Raelle and the kitchen area. "I'm afraid there's not much. There's tea, if you want something hot. Or whiskey, if you'd prefer."

"I'm alright." Raelle lets her eyes sweep over Scylla's apartment, soaking it all in. "Nice place."

Scylla shrugs. "I've lived in nicer places."

It's a casual tone that invites curiosity, but Raelle doesn't get a chance to ask.

Because all of a sudden, Scylla's right in front of her again, she's leaning in, bridging the gap between them —

Raelle doesn't expect Scylla to taste sweet.

She's more shocked that Scylla is kissing her than anything else; her brain can't quite process it. Scylla tastes like rum and cherry Coke, and her lips are a little sticky with lipstick. But it's nice — more than nice, actually. It feels like flying, like jumping off a swing at the highest point, that fleeting moment of weightlessness. And then Scylla's tongue sweeps across Raelle's bottom lip, works its way inside her mouth, and Raelle's insides burst into flames. 

Scylla pulls away slowly a long minute later, grinning.

Raelle's breathing comes shakily. She can feel the heat of a flush on her face. "I — "

"Wasn't expecting that?" Scylla sounds amused. She _looks_ amused too as she leans in close, fingering the buttons on Raelle's flannel shirt. "Honestly, Raelle, I've been flirting with you all night. Why do you think I invited you to the party in the first place?"

Raelle blushes harder, nervously twisting the ring on her index finger. "Sorry." She averts her gaze, embarrassed. "I'm not really used to that kind of thing — girls flirting with me."

Scylla's expression softens. "Right. Of course." She reaches up to cup Raelle's face with one hand, her eyes gentle with understanding. Her thumb strokes back and forth across Raelle's cheek. "I like you, Raelle. You're cute and charming. And I've wanted to kiss you since you offered to buy me coffee."

"Really?" Raelle blurts out. She's finding it shockingly difficult to play it cool when Scylla's this close, the feeling of their kiss still lingering on her lips. 

But thankfully Scylla just laughs, nodding and leaning in to rub their noses together. "Yes," she says against Raelle's mouth. "Really."

And then she's kissing Raelle again, fierce and hot, pushing her up against the door. Raelle shivers as she feels Scylla's hands move to her midriff, fingers creeping up the hem of Raelle's shirt and skirting along the bare skin of her stomach. She can't help but let out a tiny whimper as Scylla grips her tightly, grinding their hips together. 

The fire inside Raelle is roaring now. She's felt it before, but not as strongly as this now, oh no, and she moans as Scylla's hands fall to her pants, undoing the belt, the buckle clinking slightly. Scylla's mouth goes to Raelle's neck, nipping at the soft skin there before soothing it over with her tongue. It's dangerous; Raelle is afraid of Scylla leaving a visible mark.

She says as much, pulling away for a moment, hands on Scylla's shoulder.

"Alright," Scylla says agreeably with a sly smile. "I promise I won't leave any marks in places anyone else is likely to see."

A fresh spike of arousal pierces through Raelle at that. Her knees feel a bit weak; for a second she thinks she might swoon. 

She's only half-aware of what Scylla's doing right now, as Scylla undoes her pants the rest of the way, pushing her hand inside. Her fingers slip inside Raelle's underwear without hesitation; they ghost over Raelle teasingly and Raelle can't help but be a tiny bit embarrassed at how wet she is — almost painfully so, it feels like.

Perhaps everything's moving way too fast, but Raelle can't even begin to care. Scylla's gorgeous and smart and the press of her body feels oh so good, their bodies notched together perfectly. Raelle's only slept with one other girl before; it'd been a quick, fumbling affair with her high school's star basketball player, the two of them tipsy and blushing and nervous but needy. 

It hadn't been _bad_ all things considered. Raelle's always counted herself lucky for getting to experience at least that. But she's often daydreamed about doing things properly — of being in another girl's bed, of taking her time — and Scylla seems eager for the same thing. 

"Scyl," she pants, pulling back again as Scylla's fingers stroke a little more encouragingly. The nickname comes easily; judging from the way Scylla smiles into the kiss, she likes it. "Bed. Please."

Once there, Scylla straddles Raelle, her skirt riding up high on her thighs as she tugs her blouse up and over her head, tossing it aside. She's not wearing a bra; Raelle's mouth goes dry at the sight of Scylla half-naked on top of her. Pale, full breasts and hard pink nipples. The way she's got freckles _everywhere_ ; Raelle wants to kiss them all. But Scylla doesn't give her the chance, taking Raelle's hands in her own and guiding them to exactly where she wants them.

Raelle feels wetness pooling between her own thighs as she squeezes Scylla's breasts, thumbing her nipples. Scylla sighs and pushes into Raelle's hands appreciatively, back slightly. She'd turned the lights off before they made their way to bed, but her curtains are thrown wide open and light from the street and moon washes the room in muted tones of silver and gold. Scylla looks absolutely heavenly; Raelle wants to memorize every line and curve of her. She wants to remember every single detail.

Just in case she never gets another chance to experience this. 

Just in case this is a dream.

She moves to reach between Scylla's legs, but Scylla shakes her head with a chuckle, pressing Raelle's wrist down onto the mattress. "Not yet," she murmurs, leaning in to kiss Raelle long and slow. 

It doesn't take very long to divest Raelle of her outer clothing, her shirt and jeans finding their way to the floor along with Scylla's skirt. Scylla licks one of Raelle's hardened nipples through the thin fabric of her sports bra; Raelle whimpers, running her hands through Scylla's hair. Scylla teases her like that for a moment, her knee pressing just _so_ up against Raelle's center, before helping Raelle out of her underwear as well.

Scylla sits back on her haunches between Raelle's legs, admiring Raelle in the low light. Raelle blushes a little, feeling a little vulnerable. She's never been naked in front of anyone else before, and she fights the urge to close her legs and cover herself. Scylla seems to sense Raelle's trepidation; she offers a soft, sweet smile, stroking the side of Raelle's face.

"You're so beautiful," she says, and Raelle feels faint with lust and adoration.

When Scylla settles on top of Raelle, their legs intertwining, Raelle can feel just how wet Scylla is, too, damp right through her underwear.

She watches with wide eyes and trembling with excitement as Scylla kisses a trail down her stomach.

"Scylla — " 

Scylla slides back up to silence Raelle with another kiss. "I want to taste you," she purrs against Raelle's ear, her breath hot and damp. She nips at Raelle's ear, then again along the curve of Raelle's neck, kissing the dip at the base of Raelle's throat before resuming her descent downward.

Raelle lets her eyes flutter closed as Scylla shifts, the bed dipping and creaking under her weight. Scylla's arms encircle Raelle's thighs, easing them open further, trailing her tongue along teasingly. Raelle groans with frustration, taking a fistful of Scylla's hair and giving it a gentle, encouraging tug. In response, Scylla sucks sharply at a spot on the inside of Raelle's thigh, her teeth digging in a little. Raelle hisses, but it's not painful at all; it feels shockingly good. 

In her mind's eye she imagines the blood rising to the surface, pictures the dark bruise that'll be visible tomorrow morning. 

_The femoral artery_ , Raelle thinks wildly, stupidly.

A diagram from one of her pre-med classes floats to the forefront of her mind. She thinks of her rapidly beating heart, the pump of blood, the tensing of her muscles under Scylla's touch. All of it feels connected straight to the very core of her, wet and wanting. 

And then —

Oh, _God_. 

— Scylla's tongue is on her, licking a long upwards stripe, and then she's nosing her way in closer, lapping and sucking, and it's a million times better than fumbling touches in the back of a car or her own hand in the middle of the night. Raelle gasps, arching up, biting her lip as Scylla works to undo her. 

It feels like it's over much too fast. The coil in her belly tightens then snaps, and she sees stars behind her eyelids, like tiny explosions, her hips jutting up against Scylla's mouth as she comes with a muffled cry. 

She's still twitching from the aftershocks of her orgasm as Scylla sits up, wiping her mouth with her fingers and then licking them clean. Raelle, dazed, reaches for her; she needs to feel Scylla pressed against her, wants to taste herself on Scylla's lips. 

The air in the room is a bit cool, and Raelle shivers a little as the sweat on her skin begins drying. Wordlessly, Scylla pulls back the comforter, ushering them both under the sheets. Raelle sighs, tugging Scylla in close and kissing her again and again, light-headed with blissful satisfaction. They kiss like that for a long time, until Scylla's pushing Raelle onto her back again.

She'd felt weak and sleepy only a moment ago, but now Raelle's instantly alert again. Scylla's hand slips between her thighs; Raelle's still wet, slick and hot, and the cooling embers in her belly are instantly licked back to flames at Scylla's light touch. She groans, squirming underneath Scylla, who repositions herself, craning her neck down to suck on a nipple, coaxing it back to its former erect state.

"Inside," Raelle implores quietly, spreading her legs to allow Scylla greater purchase. "Please?"

After that, it's like Raelle's mind goes completely blank.

Scylla's fingers work in and out of her, thumb pressing roughly against her in the most agonizingly sweet way possible. One of Raelle's hands flies to Scylla's back, nails digging into a spot of bare skin, and Scylla's pace steadily quickens. 

Raelle groans, grits her teeth; she can once again feel herself edging along the cusp of orgasm. 

She groans again, much louder this time, as Scylla's teeth scrape along her chest. It stings, but only at first. A second later, a euphoric sensation blooms inside her. She gazes down at the top of Scylla's head, her dark hair like an oil slick in the moonlight. She can feel Scylla marking her, can feel the movements of the muscles in her arm as she brings Raelle to climax for a second time. 

And then Raelle _does_ come; she's writhing on the bed and the blood is pounding in her ears and there's nothing else in the world right now except for _Scylla, Scylla, Scylla_ , her mouth and her hands and the red, red, _red_ of her mouth when she moves in for a kiss, sweet as sin.

"You taste delicious," Scylla says, in a soft, reverent tone, trailing tiny kisses along Raelle's jawline, and Raelle feels lighter than air.

* * *

**KITTERY, ME | NOVEMBER 1998**

Raelle settles down at her desk as the computer monitor flickers to life.

The words come easy today:

_She's been watching for a while._

_She's very good at watching; she's had years of practice. She's never been particularly fond of conversation or socializing, though she can go through the performative motions just fine when the need arises. But she's always preferred to observe from a distance; it allows for a clearer picture of the people and world around them. One can learn a lot about someone through quiet and patience._

_And patience is a virtue she's become intimately familiar with; she has all the time in the world._

_She'd taken shelter in the shade of a towering oak tree, the day sweltering with late summer heat. She was working through what must have been her dozenth re-read of one of her favorite books — _Steppenwolf_ ; the irony never fails to delight her — when she was roused from her concentration by the sounds of laughter from a group of girls nearby._

_In particular, the sound came from a lithe blonde girl with a messy braid and clothes that looked two sizes too big for her small frame. She was laughing at something one of her companions had said; her head tipped back, her pale throat exposed._

_There were people everywhere, and hardly any of them ever caught her eye. She thought perhaps it was hunger — or even simple lust. But this feeling wasn't that. It was different. It was something softer, less animalistic. A sort of primordial_ tug _, as if an invisible string connected them, drawing them together._

_She can no more explain it than explain her very nature._

_But a coveting need burns within her._

_And she cannot deny herself._

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | AUTUMN OF 1988**

Raelle wakes to sunlight pouring in through the windows.

She blinks groggily; for a moment she's forgotten where she is, confused to find herself staring up at a stucco ceiling instead of the underside of Tally's bunk. But then the events of the previous evening come rushing back and she recalls drifting off to sleep with Scylla curled against her. She yawns, sitting up and stretching her arms up over her head with a relieved sigh. 

"You're awake."

It's Scylla.

She's leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping from a mug, hair pulled back into a messy bun. She's dressed in a pink and mint striped drop shoulder crop polo shirt paired with a high-waisted jean skirt and plain white Keds. It's a decidedly preppy look — completely different from what she was wearing last night — and Raelle decides that it's truly impossible for Scylla to look bad in anything. 

She draws her knees to her chest, sitting up a little more. She yawns again and runs a hand through her hair; she's suddenly self-conscious of being in such a sleepy, tumbled state — and still very much _naked_ — when Scylla looks like she's just sauntered straight out of the pages of a Macy's catalog. 

"What time is it?"

Scylla glances at her watch. "Almost two. We gave half the day to the night."

Raelle blinks, surprised. She's hardly an early riser, but she's never slept in so late before. Not even the time she got a little too drunk at an unsanctioned Homecoming party in junior year in high school and stumbled into her bedroom at three in the morning, passing out face down in bed. 

Although . . . she _has_ been burning the midnight oil recently; she's only at Danvers State on scholarship, which means having to ace her mid-terms. Even Abigail had commented on how many nights she's stayed up late to get in extra studying. Maybe it wasn't so unusual at all: that, combined with the events of yesterday evening — and early this morning — were enough to wear her out for good.

Either way, right now she feels great.

It's the morning — well, _afternoon_ — after the most fantastic, whirlwind event of her life. Scylla's bed is warm and soft and bathed in luxurious afternoon light, and she's staring at Raelle with a gentle, bemused expression, steam rising from her mug in thin, wispy tendrils. It's the furthest thing from what Raelle had feared — that she'd be hastily ushered out of Scylla's apartment at the first morning light, never to hear from her again. This isn't that at all; it feels — Raelle grasps for a word — almost _cozy_.

Like it's just any ordinary moment.

But, of course, it isn't. 

"Come here," Raelle says shyly, leaning back against the pillows. 

Scylla's grin widens, and she sets her cup aside while she toes off her sneakers. She pads across the room, crawling into bed and straddling Raelle suggestively. Raelle laughs and tugs her down by her shirt, kissing her languorously. Scylla tastes like hot chocolate; sweet, just like before.

"You didn't get a turn last night," Raelle admits, a little sheepishly, when Scylla pulls away to trail tiny kisses along Raelle's neck.

"Mm. That's okay."

Raelle's fingers glide along the strip of exposed skin between Scylla's shirt and skirt, then up along her spine. "Yeah, but — it's impolite to leave a lady hanging like that."

Scylla laughs, light and silvery. Her eyes dance with amusement. "Is that so?"

Another kiss, deeper this time. She lowers herself down so that she's flush on top of Raelle, their clothes the only thing left separating them. Raelle feels her heart quicken in her chest and wetness pool between her legs. They've only just begun kissing and already she's excited again. She thinks of Scylla's hand between her legs, fingers pumping fluidly — or Scylla's tongue, narrowed to a point — and then has to remind herself to slow down. 

"I usually have a lot more stamina," Raelle tells her.

It's not _entirely_ a lie — Raelle doesn't even have enough experience to know for certain. But she's not about to confess to Scylla that she's the first woman she's ever properly slept with. Not when Scylla's grinding their hips together, causing Raelle's breath to hitch and her brain to go a little fuzzy.

"You seemed a little drained," Scylla teases lightly, smirking against Raelle's mouth. "Can't blame you."

It's all the incentive Raelle needs to flip them over. Scylla giggles when she lands on her back, squirming with delight and need as Raelle hovers above her on all fours, pushing up Scylla's shirt and kissing a path from her hips up to her breasts. When she glances up at Scylla, Scylla's watching her with those impossibly blue eyes.

She reaches down and pushes Raelle's hair away from her face.

"Lovely," she murmurs, and Raelle's heart swells.

Things are different this time.

Slower.

*

"Where have you _been_?" is the first thing Raelle's greeted with when she steps into her dorm room a few hours later.

She was hoping that her roommates would be out and she could avoid any awkward conversations for a little while longer. But it seems luck is only on her side when it comes to Scylla's interest in her; Abigail and Tally are sitting on Abigail's bed watching Notre Dame battle it out against Miami on the gridiron and sharing a bowl of popcorn.

Raelle can practically _feel_ their stares on her as she quietly shrugs off her coat, draping it over the back of her chair.

"Tally and I were getting worried," Abigail says pointedly, as Raelle flops down onto her own bed.

There's a hint of an accusation to it, as if they were expecting Raelle to keep them updated. At that, Raelle feels a tiny wriggle of guilt. She'd simply assumed that they wouldn't have been bothered by her absence, if they noted it at all. But it isn't as if staying out all evening was a regular habit of hers; in fact, until now, she'd always been back in the room before ten. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt to have called and let them know she wasn't going to be coming home that night. 

"Sorry," she says, sitting up. "I, uh, got a little drunk. Scylla let me crash at her place." She pauses, hoping her tone and expression are appropriately apologetic — and enough to cover her lie. "I didn't realize how late it was." 

Abigail looks thoroughly unimpressed. "Must have been some party."

Raelle shrugs. "It was alright."

She fixes her gaze on the television, where a commercial for Electrolux is playing out, and fantasizes about announcing that the party was beyond boring, but the evening she spent with Scylla was _fantastic_. She imagines the stunned look on Abigail's face, a scarlet blush coloring Tally's cheeks, and has to bite back a smile to keep her expression dutifully contrite.

She'd showered at Scylla's place before she left, wholly uninterested in arriving back at her dorm room smelling of sex and cheap alcohol. In the steamy haze of the bathroom she'd examined herself in the mirror, finding a smattering of small, mottled purple bruises along her chest and shoulders. When she looked down, she saw a few similar splotches on the insides of her thighs.

For a moment, she felt a tiny bit of pride in being covered with love-bites, but the feeling was immediately followed by the cold knowledge that she'd have to be careful not to let anyone else see. _Especially_ not Tally, who would certainly hound her with question after question until Raelle was forced to confess everything.

And . . . maybe telling Tally wouldn't be so bad. Raelle thinks she might like to tell her and Abigail both. But she's still only known them for a few months — and Scylla even less than that. Perhaps it would be best to wait until she's certain this thing with Scylla is serious, first. 

"Well, we're glad you had a good time," Tally pipes up, after a moment. She reaches across Abigail to snatch a handful of popcorn. "Maybe we can all go to a party next weekend?"

She sounds so hopeful, Raelle can't bring herself to decline. "Sure, Tal," she says, reaching for her pillow and hugging it tight, already thinking again of the feeling of Scylla's body against hers and wondering when they'll see each other again. 

Scylla had written her number down on a blank, eggshell-white index card, folding it up and sliding it into Raelle's back pocket in a way that was much more seductive than it had any right to be. She'd ushered Raelle out the door with a wink and a quick kiss, telling Raelle to call her later.

It's only a tiny bit of paper, but Raelle's certain she can feel the weight of it in her pocket. 

She fights the urge to take it out and stare at it, tracing her fingers over the creases and numbers like some kind of lovestruck adolescent. She's giving herself until it's nearly bedtime to call — firstly because it'll mean less people hanging out in the common area where the payphones are, and secondly because she doesn't want to seem desperate. Or, well, not _too_ desperate, in any case. 

She's not at all worried about waking Scylla up; Scylla had casually mentioned over a second cup of hot chocolate — while watching Raelle dress — that she was a night owl.

Raelle can't wait to hear Scylla's voice again; she's already thinking about it, letting her imagination run wild. Hushed goodnights and promises of future plans. Scylla saying her name, that delightful accent of hers. 

(She'd said it many times this morning, moaning and panting and twisting on the sheets.)

It's not until Abigail makes mention of it that Raelle realizes she's grinning like an idiot.

 _Oh, no,_ Raelle thinks, the tips of her ears burning, as she clears her throat and feigns sudden interest in the pattern on her quilt.

She's already got it _bad_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Danvers, MA | Autumn of 1988**

"We should go out more," Raelle says, as Scylla curls up beside her in bed, stroking her hip lightly.

It's been nearly two weeks since they first slept together. Raelle had worried about seeming too needy, but Scylla was the one who asked her to come over the following evening — and every other one after that, as well. 

Raelle's come up with a handful of excuses to Tally and Abigail to explain away her nightly absences; she fell asleep studying in the library or she was needed for a group project. Once or twice she'd mumbled something about Scylla offering to help tutor her with her biology homework and left it at that, scurrying out of the room before either of them could press her further.

If they knew she was spending every night at Scylla's place . . . well, it'd look more than a _little_ suspicious. It isn't that she's ashamed of who she is — self-loathing has never been a problem for Raelle, at least not in this regard — she's simply just not ready to tell them yet. 

Perhaps, Raelle thinks, she should slow things down with Scylla. Take her time and do things properly; dates and chaste kisses and lovely goodbyes. The kind of honeyed, rose-tinted romantic courtship Raelle's always read about in books or watched play out in John Hughes movies; the kind she'd always day-dreamed about. But it seemed silly now to want that when things were already perfect.

Like now, lying in bed next to Scylla, exhausted but sated from their lovemaking, Mircalla — Scylla's fluffy, cuddly black cat — balled up asleep at the foot of the bed, purring contentedly. 

The cat had given Raelle a terrible scare at first; only two nights after their initial coupling, Raelle was roused from her sleep by a strange, sharp feeling at her chest. Opening her eyes, she saw a black shape hovering in front of her face, glowing jade eyes staring down at her. Immediately she'd bolted out of bed, yelping with terror and scrambling to get away.

"Scylla!"

The lights flickered on slowly; Scylla was by the front door, her hand on the main switch, looking completely at ease. Raelle hadn't even seen her move, too busy trying to escape an unknown assailant. Panting, Raelle gestured towards the bed with a shaking hand.

"There's something there!"

She watched as something wriggled in the sheets — 

A small, furry head poked itself out, ears twitching. 

It had only been a cat. A fluffy, soot-colored thing with wide, pear-hued eyes. Freeing the rest of its body from the sheets, it crawled up onto Raelle's pillow, meowing apprehensively at her before starting to clean itself off. Raelle sagged in relief against the couch, laughing at her own fear. 

Scylla strode across the room, gently scooping the cat up into her arms. It nuzzled against her neck affectionately, trilling as it did so. 

"This is Mircalla," Scylla told Raelle, scratching behind the cat's ears. "Did she frighten you?"

Raelle stood up, approaching the two of them slowly. "I didn't know you had a cat." She stretched out her fingers; Mircalla sniffed them curiously, then turned back to Scylla, apparently disinterested. "Why didn't I see her before?"

"She's an outdoor cat. She comes and goes as she pleases." Scylla nodded towards the front door, where indeed there was a small cat flap installed a few inches off the ground.

Raelle felt like an idiot for not noticing before — though in her defense, she _had_ been rather distracted all the times she'd visited Scylla's apartment so far.

Now, though, she's grown used to Mircalla's midnight prowling and her tendency to come sleep with them in bed, wedging herself between them or plopping down on one of their bellies. Raelle's never had a pet before, though she always wanted one, and despite Mircalla's initial indifference, she's actually rather agreeable. It's clear she prefers Scylla though; frequently Raelle finds the two of them stretched out on the couch together, Scylla reading while Mircalla dozes on her lap. 

"I don't get out much," Scylla sighs. She presses a kiss to Raelle's chest, where a new bruise is already flowering in a deep crimson hue.

It's not _every_ time they have sex, but Scylla's made her predilection for love-bites very clear. She blushed when Raelle first mentioned it, apologizing shyly. Raelle was quick to mention that she didn't mind, only asking again that Scylla would take care not to leave any easily visible marks. 

"Besides." Another kiss, then one lower, just above Raelle's nipple. Her teeth scrape lightly; Raelle shivers. "Don't we have enough fun like this?"

Raelle resists the urge to pin Scylla to the bed and ravish her for the second time this evening. She threads her fingers through Scylla's hair, pushing it back. "It _is_ nice," she assures Scylla, who meets her gaze with a mischievous smile. "But wouldn't it also be nice to go out on a date, too?"

Scylla's expression is thoughtful, as if she's never considered the possibility. "Is that what you want?"

"Only if _you_ want to, too." Raelle pauses. Then, "It doesn't have to be anywhere special."

Another kiss; Scylla leans in to capture Raelle's mouth with her own. "Alright," she agrees amicably. Her hand slides from Raelle's hip to between her thighs, eliciting a low moan from Raelle; Scylla's fingers find her slick and needy.

"Tomorrow," Scylla says, the muscles in her arm contracting against Raelle's stomach. "I'll take you somewhere special."

After that, they don't do much talking. 

Raelle drifts to sleep with Scylla pressed against her, her breath coming steady and shallow against Raelle's shoulder, the room dark with the new moon.

*

Raelle wakes the next morning to Scylla having stolen all the blankets, sound asleep. 

Mircalla, from the cluttered window seat, watches Raelle climb out of bed with a sleepy expression. She mewls appreciatively when Raelle scratches under her chin, stretching out in the morning sunlight. Raelle smiles when she sees her clothes in a neatly folded pile on the couch; Scylla must have gotten up at some point in the night to do it. There's a note on top, written in Scylla's elegant, sloping hand. 

_Noon. Student center. Don't be late._

Hours later, showered and a little out of breath — she'd sprinted from class back to her dorm room to change in to a slightly more presentable outfit, offering only a quick remark to her roommates that she would be back later — she perches on the stone wall that rings the iron-wrought clock near where she and Scylla first met. 

It feels like ages ago now, even though it hasn't even been a month. Raelle still can't believe her luck.

The clock strikes twelve just as Scylla saunters up, her school knapsack slung over one black turtle-necked shoulder, a white blazer folder under one arm. Her hair's been pulled back into a simple bun, though the chill late October wind has worked quite a few small strands loose. It's a lovely disheveled look and Raelle's struck with a pang of longing at not being able to sweep her up into a kiss right here and now.

Scylla seems to feel similarly; she leans in with a smile to press a soft, tiny kiss to Raelle's cheek in greeting. Nothing more than a chaste, fleeting show of public affection, but it makes Raelle feel exceptionally daring. 

"Ready to go?"

Raelle follows Scylla down to the parking lot behind the student center where a sleek Bentley, chrome polished to perfection, sits idling. 

The driver jumps out as Scylla approaches, a tall, wiry man with floppy brown hair under his slightly askew cap.

"Byron," Scylla chirps with a nod as he opens the door for her.

Raelle gawps. She's always assumed that Scylla came with a well-off family, based on her apartment, clothes, and the brief mentions she's made of travel. But this is fancier than she imagined. 

Scylla notices her staring. "Come on." She gestures to the door with an amused smile. "My aunt offered to let me use the car for the day. I usually prefer to walk, but Marblehead's a bit of a hike."

Byron winks at Raelle as she clambers inside, shutting the door behind her gently. The interior is spotless, the seats fitted in buttery-smooth saddle tan leather. It's a far cry from any of the reliable but cramped economy cars Raelle's parents ever drove, and a million times fanciers than the worn and dented '78 Ford truck that her father helped her fix up over the summer — the one currently loitering in the student parking lot behind her dorm, desperately in need of an oil change and snow tires. 

"Harbor Light, Byron, if you'll please," Scylla says with the casual air of someone used to giving directions, crossing her legs and sliding on a pair of chunky black-rimmed sunglasses. She turns to look at Raelle, grinning. She reaches out, lacing their fingers together. "I told you I'd take you somewhere nice, didn't I?"

"You have a _driver_." Raelle's still fixated.

Scylla laughs. "Oh, it's just Byron." Her tone is edged with affection. "I've known him for ages. I was the one who got him the job."

"It's mostly just sitting around," Bryon says from the front, as he eases the car onto the main road off-campus. "I'm part driver, part housekeeper. Also, apparently, part chaperone, eh, Scylla?" He meets Raelle's gaze in the rearview mirror and winks again.

Raelle flushes hotly, but Scylla only laughs again, giving Raelle's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"It's alright," she murmurs, bringing their joint hands to her mouth and kissing Raelle's knuckles sweetly. "He's like us."

*

The Harbor Inn sits right on the neck of Marblehead, surrounded on all sides by trees flush in the orange-gold hues of late fall. The inevitable cold and wet of November is just around the corner, but today the weather is pretty perfect: the sun dappling off the bay water, the Carolina blue sky cloudless. 

Inside, the maître d greets Scylla warmly and ushers them over to a table by the large, arched windows overlooking the docks.

There's a few people out sailing, but most of the boats sit cloistered together, bobbing a little with the lap of the tide. A dozen or so seagulls strut up and down the walkway, squawking loudly at the little sparrows darting about for scraps of food. Raelle glances around as the waiter places their menus in front of them; the dining room is half-full. Business men and socialites, she assumes. The kind of people who frequent Hilton Head; she'd worked as a grounds person there last summer to make a little money for college. 

The type of people who would _never_ associate with an awkward country girl like herself.

Scylla seems to sense her shyness. "Perhaps it's a bit much," she says, eyes skimming over the wine list. "My aunt always takes me here when she visits. I thought the view would remind you of home."

Raelle thinks of the sprawling mansions of Beaufort, the freshly cut lawns and lush greenery, all framed by the Atlantic Ocean. She and her parents lived on base, back when her mother was still working at the hospital. Every Saturday she and her father used to bike along the Parris waterfront as the sun rose high in the midday sky, slicking their brows with sweat.

She'd mentioned it only in passing one evening when she and Scylla were nestled together on the couch watching _Jeopardy!_ , a show Scylla took great delight in watching, smiling smugly every time she was correct — which was often. On screen, Alex Trebeck was interviewing a man with a deep Southern drawl who sounded just like the owner of the ice cream shop she and her father used to stop at before heading home.

Scylla _remembered_ ; the thought makes Raelle feel warm all the way down to her toes. 

"It's not too much. It's — well, it's really nice, actually."

Scylla beams at her.

The food is richer than anything Raelle's ever had; Scylla orders them both filet mignon, though she has hers rare. It makes Raelle wince when she watches Scylla cut into her steak, watery blood pooling around the meat, though Scylla merely laughs and assures Raelle that it's the only _proper_ way to eat it. She says so with a teasing smile, mouth curving around the rim of her glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. 

"Ah," Scylla says, when the bill arrives. She snatches it away before Raelle can even look inside. "Don't worry," she tells Raelle, fishing her wallet out of her bag and retrieving a silver credit card. "It's my treat."

Raelle can't help but protest; it's surely much too expensive. She feels a shameful sting of embarrassment, knowing that she could never treat Scylla to a day out as fine as this one. But Scylla doesn't appear phased at all. She waves Raelle off with a slight flourish of her hand.

"It's my aunt who's paying for everything, anyway. Might as well make the most of it, hm?"

Later, as Scylla lounges on the bed while Raelle does homework, she recounts the story of how she came to live with her aunt. Her parents died when she was very young; her aunt was a wealthy widow from a previous marriage and executor of her parents' estate. She'd taken Scylla in at her house in Stockholm and raised her like a daughter. When Scylla was fourteen, she'd been sent Scylla to boarding school in the United States. 

"I didn't mind, though." Scylla toys with a strand of hair, knotting it into a tiny braid. "My aunt is . . . eccentric. A bit of a recluse. She has a house in Nantucket, but she spends most of her time in Europe. I don't see her very often." She shrugs. "But she pays for all my expenses. And I'm used to being on my own."

There's wistful timbre to her words, and again Raelle's struck with a desire to know everything about her. 

But instead she says, "Scylla, will you be my girlfriend?"

When Scylla climbs off the bed and kisses her until they're both breathless, Raelle knows the answer is _yes_.

*

"I've never had a girlfriend before," Scylla sighs, arching under Raelle's touch, the bed bathed in moonlight. "I think I like it very much."

After she comes, she presses Raelle down onto the bed.

It's just like the first time they made love: Scylla's hand between her legs, her mouth on Raelle's breast, humming with pleasure as Raelle bursts to life under her touch, woozy with euphoria, stars flashing behind her eyelids.

* * *

**KITTERY, ME | JANUARY, 1999**

_She's falling._

_She feels_ things _._

_Things she hasn't felt in a long time — or, perhaps, ever at all._

_It's a problem._

_Indifference had become a second nature to her; she inhabited it like a skin. There was a kind of comfort in feeling nothing, in allowing nothing to touch her. She could live how she wanted, without remorse or shame. Or guilt. She could reason away any of her actions and feel satisfied that she acted only in ways that she should. In ways she_ had _to, to survive._

_But she is not like that any more._

_In her heart she knows she is wholly the same as always. There is no denying that. But she can feel the tiny spark of someone she might have once been; how it catches like embers on dry kindling. She is a forest fire, burning down to make room for new growth. Her cool, aloof nature dissolves into something softer, sweeter._

_Something has taken root in her and blossomed all on its own, against her will._

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | AUTUMN OF 1988**

Tally's got it bad for a boy.

Well, not just _any_ boy, apparently, as she's quick to correct Raelle.

He's _Gerit Buttonwood_ , a junior and the captain of the school's nationally ranked lacrosse team. It's only Division III — where Raelle comes from, that hardly even counts, but she doesn't bother to point that out. She's been listening to Tally go on and on about him since they first met a week earlier while at the gym. By now, Raelle's nearly given herself a migraine from having to force herself to not roll her eyes when Tally starts in again about how _handsome_ he is, and did Raelle know that he was also a talented artist as well?

"So you've said," Abigail comments dryly with a wry smile as she folds her laundry. "So, when are you going to sleep with him?"

"Abigail!" Tally exclaims in a high-pitched squeak and goes bright red.

Raelle laughs, leaning back in her chair and twirling her pen around between her fingers. Leave it to Abigail to ask the blunt — if not actually important — questions. Not that Raelle has any particular interest in the matter, but it's a hell of a lot more entertaining than her currently mind-numbing calculus homework: watching Abigail grin wickedly while Tally blushes and stammers.

"It's only been one date, Abi," she says. 

Abigail looks unimpressed. "So?"

"So, not all of us are man-eaters like you!" Tally rolls her eyes, but her smile is sincere. And then, "Isn't that right, Raelle?"

Now it's Raelle's turn to blush, stiffening. Her heart leaps to her throat, thumping nervously. "Well — "

Just then comes a knock on the door. 

It's Glory, wanting to steal Tally away for a trip downtown for lunch. Raelle's shoulders slump with relief; she releases the breath she was holding, her anxiety dissipating like ice in heat, and tries to telepathically send Glory her thanks for interrupting what might have been an otherwise very awkward moment. 

She waves goodbye to Tally and is just about to turn back to her homework when Abigail says, gently, "Everything okay, Raelle?"

Raelle bites her lip, avoiding Abigail's gaze. "Yeah, of course," she says, hoping the lightness in her tone doesn't sound forced. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Abigail shrugs. "No reason. Just . . . well, nevermind."

She goes back to folding clothes, but Raelle swears she can feel Abigail's gaze on her the whole time.

*

She goes to Scylla's again, later.

With Scylla, she doesn't have to pretend to be anything she's not. She doesn't have to avoid uncomfortable subjects. She doesn't have to worry about what people might say, if they knew the real her — what they might do, how they may look at her. Here, no one and nothing can touch her. 

Here, she is _safe_.

"How did you get this?" Scylla wonders out loud, running her fingers along the thin, jagged scar on Raelle's face.

Raelle closes her eyes, leaning into Scylla's touch. "An accident, a few years back. I was out helping my dad with some construction work." She flinches at the memory. "It's mostly a blur, now."

"I like it," Scylla tells her. She presses the softest of kisses to it. And then, like she hasn't thought about it until just this moment, she says, "There's lots of things I like about you, actually."

It may just be the sweetest thing Raelle's ever been told. 

Has she ever felt lighter in her whole life?

*

"Halloween's always been my favorite holiday," Scylla says, sipping her coffee, gazing at the black and orange streamers draped throughout the building.

They're in the tiny café on the second floor of the student center, sharing a rare early morning breakfast. Well, it's mostly Raelle eating — Scylla only picks at her cheese danish, mumbling a complaint that she gets too nauseous in the morning to entertain the idea of consuming anything but something hot to drink.

"Though I suppose what I'm more interested in is Samhain, really. It's more appropriate anyway, don't you think?" she asks Raelle, who's stirring two more packets of sugar into her own cup. "Considering where we are."

Raelle frowns. "Hmm?"

"Danvers."

She says it like Raelle's supposed to understand — but all Raelle can do is stare at her blankly. 

Scylla laughs, then elucidates. "Oh, don't you know? It used to be part of Salem. This is where all the action _actually_ took place." She leans forward on her elbows, resting her chin on her folded hands. She always gets so contemplative when she's going on about history; Raelle finds it cute. "Most of the buildings from then are gone now, though. It's a shame."

"Seems a little gruesome to me."

Scylla smirks, clearly amused. "Maybe. But the darker parts of history can be fascinating, don't you think? All the blood and horror. All that fear and hatred over nothing." She raises an eyebrow, continuing lightly, "It's not so different now, if you think about it."

The implication is anything but subtle. 

"Speaking of," Raelle begins quietly. She glances around nervously, but they're the only ones here aside from the barista, who's wiping down the espresso machine with a bored expression. "I'm thinking of telling Tally and Abigail. About . . . you know. Us."

"Oh." Scylla blinks. "Really?"

Raelle stares down at her coffee. "Not today, but, yeah. Soon. Maybe it's a bad idea, but — "

"No, no," Scylla says quickly, her hand darting out, fingers brushing reassuringly against Raelle's wrist. "I think it'll be good." She pauses, her eyes searching Raelle's face. "Do you need me to be there with you?"

Raelle shakes her head. "I can do it," she tells Scylla resolutely. "But in the event it doesn't go well — "

"You'll do fine," Scylla says proudly, cutting her off. "I know I don't know them. But _you_ do. And from what you've told me, they'll be more than accepting. Besides," Scylla continues fluidly, beaming at her. "Won't it be nice, not having to hide from your friends anymore? Now they'll be able to know the _real_ you. Just like I do."

Her smile is so encouraging, so radiant, that Raelle — not for the first time — wants to throw all caution to the wind and lean across the table to kiss her. 

She settles, instead, with reaching her index finger out to stroke lightly along the back of Scylla's hand, tracing the shape of a heart.

*

It takes her nearly two weeks to work up her courage.

"So," Raelle says one evening, when they're all getting ready to turn in for the evening. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

She's sitting backwards on her desk chair, leaning her arms over the back. Tally's at the door, combing her hair out in the mirror. Abigail reclined back on her bed, is paging half-heartedly through the newest issue of _People_ and stifling a yawn. They both turn to look at her expectantly.

Raelle wrings her hands nervously, toying with her mother's ring on her left index finger. Her heart's beating double-time in her chest and her stomach is a twisted, miserable knot of anxiety. She always knew this wouldn't be that easy, but she didn't expect it to be this hard, either. She's only come out to one other person in her whole life — Scylla and the basketball captain from high school didn't count — and that was her father. 

He'd taken it all in quietly; when she was done, he wrapped her up in a tight hug and told her he loved her and that had been that.

Now, Raelle licks her lips and, steadying herself with a deep breath, begins tentatively. "It's, uh, hard for me to say — I mean, I don't know if I can say it right. Or, I mean, I don't know how to not put it bluntly."

"Well, you can tell us," Tally says demurely, twisting her hair off to one side and setting her brush down on top of her dresser. "Whatever it is, you can tell us."

Raelle laughs shakily. "That is so easy for you to say."

"Don't tell us then," Abigail says, though not unkindly. She's tossed her magazine aside and is regarding Raelle thoughtfully. "If it makes you that uncomfortable — "

"Scylla's my girlfriend."

She doesn't mean to blurt it out so plainly, but the words tumble out before she can stop herself. She flushes hotly, embarrassed. 

"Oh."

A fleeting look passes between Tally and Abigail. Raelle's stomach does another anxious flip.

"I'm, uh. Gay," she clarifies quietly, face still burning. "I'm a lesbian."

For a few horrible, arduously long moments, a heavy silence blankets the room. Raelle resists the impulse to get up and dash out of the room — or to laugh stupidly and declare it all a joke. Maybe she's made a huge mistake, telling them. Maybe they're going to —

It's Abigail who speaks first. "Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but I guessed that _ages_ ago," she says with a flippant smile that in any other situation would make Raelle roll her eyes in annoyance, but right now it's the nicest thing in the whole world. "I went to an all-girls boarding school, after all." 

"And I grew up next door to San Fran," Tally adds with a small shrug, as if that explains everything. "Besides," she adds, "it's love that matters, right? I mean, if you love someone and they love you back, well, that's what's really important, isn't it? Everything else is just secondary."

Raelle's eyes prickle with tears, all her nervousness melting into relief. When Tally crosses the room to sweep her into a tight hug, Raelle squeezes back just as tightly. Abigail joins them a second later and they huddle together in a shared embrace for a long minute. Raelle feels lighter, suddenly; it's the sort of cliché she's always read about in books, but it really _does_ feel like a weight's been lifted off her.

She buries her face in Tally's shoulder. _This is what having real friends is like_ , she thinks, and feels warm with love.

"You should probably introduce us to Scylla." Abigail laughs, untangling herself at last. "Like, _properly_. Her coming to the room that one time doesn't count. Tally and I need to do the whole, ‘you hurt her, we kill you' sort of thing."

Raelle snorts, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. "What are you, my dad?" She relaxes into a smile. "Yeah, okay. I'll bring her around sometime."

Tally sprawls herself out on Raelle's bed, propping herself up on one elbow. "Now tell us _everything_ ," she says eagerly, eyes glinting. "I want to know all the details."

It feels nice, the ordinariness of it all. 

So, Raelle obliges her.

*

Scylla pins Raelle to the door with a heady kiss as soon as Raelle arrives.

Scylla had given her a key a few days ago, stating that if Raelle was going to spend half her time at the apartment anyway, it only made sense for Raelle to been able to let herself in whenever she wanted. Raelle had grinned like an idiot the whole evening. It was only a key, but it might as well have been a wedding ring as far as Raelle was concerned. It meant _trust_. And based off of the little Raelle'd learned about Scylla in the time they'd spent together — her aloof, private nature, her lack of friends — Raelle doesn't think Scylla trusts _anyone_ very much.

Which means Raelle is _special_.

"Missed you," Scylla pants huskily against Raelle's neck, already undoing the belt and button on Raelle's jeans.

"Scyl, wait," Raelle murmurs, reaching down to grab Scylla's wrist and stop her hand from sliding down further. "I, uh. Can't." She blushes a little as Scylla stares at her impassively. "I'm on my period."

Scylla's expression turns puzzled. "So?" Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. She moves in for another kiss, a little rougher than before. "I don't mind." 

Raelle's blush deepens. "But — "

"Raelle." Scylla presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Her smile is patient. Kind. "It's not a big deal. Honestly. But . . . we can stop if you want to . . . "

She trails off as she eases her hand past the waistband of Raelle's jeans and underwear, fingers sliding wetly. Her smile turns wolfish as Raelle groans, sagging against the door. Her hands fly up to Scylla's shoulders, gripping her tightly. It's a little embarrassing — she thinks of the insides of her thighs, slick with blood and arousal — but it feels _good_ too, and she doesn't want to stop. 

Scylla presses harder, her breath coming hot and quick against Raelle's neck. And then Scylla's pulling her hand away with a smirk — she's sinking to her knees, tugging down Raelle's pants, kissing a trembling thigh, her mouth is —

Raelle lets out a choked cry, no longer embarrassed, no longer anything but delirious with pleasure. 

She's never seen Scylla so uninhibited before.

God, she thinks wildly. She'd let Scylla do _anything_ to her. 

*

The sidewalk is icy; Raelle huffs, hands in her pockets, taking care as she walks so as not to slip.

She had planned to stay at Scylla's for the evening, like usual, but, lying on the floor in the afterglow, Scylla announced that she had an essay to finish and that Raelle should go back to her dorm.

"It's late and I really need to get it done," she'd told a grumpy Raelle with a light kiss. "And I can't concentrate when you're here; I don't want to do anything but take you to bed. Or, in this case, have my way with you on the floor. Again." She grins as she springs to her feet, pulling her shirt back on. "It's just for one evening."

Raelle couldn't very well argue that, especially when she was secretly pleased to know she apparently had the same distracting effect on Scylla that Scylla had on her. So she'd grudgingly dressed and shown herself out, but not before coaxing another half-dozen kisses from an amused — if not slightly annoyed — Scylla. 

It's freezing out; Raelle shivers, taking in the tiniest bit of a fresh snowfall still lingering on the grass. Already she misses the warmth of Scylla's apartment and wishes she was in Scylla's bed, their bodies pressed flush together. She wraps her arms around herself, wishing she'd thought to bring gloves and a knit cap. She'll have to remember to start checking the weather in the mornings, now that winter's approaching. She never had to worry about it before. 

She's thinking about how delightful it would be to enjoy Charleston temperatures right now when something inky and shifting appears suddenly in her peripheral vision, accompanied by the loud, sharp snap of a branch.

Raelle pauses mid-step, suddenly flooded with the uneasy sensation that she's being watched. She casts a sweeping look around the darkened sidewalk, but there's no one there. There's nothing but sounds of her own breathing and the slight rustling of the wind through the mostly bare trees. She can hear traffic a ways off, the sputtering of a muffler, the roar of an engine. 

She stares into the darkness, holding her breath, heart thudding in her chest.

The darkness stares right back.

*

That night, she dreams of a hulking black figure with glittering blood-red eyes at the foot of her bed.

The figure stares and stares, the silence unbearable. Raelle is frozen in terror. She wants to scream, but her throat closes up. She can't breathe. Her brain screams at her to move, but she can't, she's pinned to the bed, her limbs feel like lead. She's trapped. 

And then the figure begins to creep towards her —

She starts awake with a shout, shivering and drenched with sweat.

Abigail switches on her bedside lamp, squinting bleary-eyed at Raelle, brow knitted in concern and confusion. The upper bunk creaks and Tally's voice comes a moment later, thick with sleep, asking if everything is alright.

Raelle nods, running a shaky hand through her hair. "Just a bad dream," she manages to croak out.

She isn't sure why she does it — maybe to assure herself that she is safe — but she reaches out to touch the sheets at the end of the bed where the figure in her dream sat. The material is warm to the touch; she snatches her hand away as if burned, trembling.

_What if — ?!_

But then there's a groan as the heat kicks on again, and Raelle suddenly remembers how close her bed is to the radiator. She allows herself a tiny smile at her own foolishness. 

_Just a dream_ , she tells herself. She repeats it thrice more. Like a prayer. _You're letting your imagination run wild._

Raelle lays back down as Abigail switches the light back off, her heartbeat returning to its normal, steady rhythm.

But the dream lingers.

Fear and doubt creep back in.

She's on that snow-dusted sidewalk again, staring into the abyss.

* * *

**KITTERY, ME | JANUARY, 1999**

I am in blood, stepped in so far, that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er.

_The line comes to her, unbidden._

_She smiles._

_She's always liked Shakespeare._

_She crouches in the darkness, lurking in the shadow of the sloping, spiraling stone walkway that leads from the library to the lower campus housing. She's starving, ravenous with bloodlust. It's been decades since her hunger has felt so overpowering; a wild, perverse need thrums through her, aching to be sated. The last time she ate — properly so — was only back in September. Before, she's always been able to go months between feedings without issue._

_Perhaps it's her own foolishness that has led her to this point. In the past, though she would tease it out for several days, she eventually saw her hunger through to its natural completion: death._

_But now she's grown soft and needy. She has not allowed herself to feed like usual, only indulging in a small taste every few days. That level of restraint alone requires nearly all her strength; how intensely she's fought the heady, desperate urge to sink her teeth into pale, giving flesh and drink her fill._

_How ironic, that a tiny bit of humanity should turn her monstrous again._

_Her ears prick up at the quiet shuffle of feet on the stone steps._

_She ducks down lower, making sure to obscure herself from view. It's late, and the evening's blustery wind and the impending doom of midterms have kept most students from venturing out any more than necessary. This sort of thing is easier when she doesn't have to worry about anyone interfering._

_An innocent bystander stumbling upon her in the middle of a feed — it's happened before. She doesn't care for the hassle._

_A girl trudges by where Scylla crouches, still as a statue._

_The girl is a slight little thing with dark, curly hair. She's got headphones on, Walkman blasting._

_The girl doesn't hear the footsteps behind her._

_She doesn't even have time to cry out._

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | AUTUMN OF 1988**

"Raelle."

Someone's shaking her awake.

Tally.

Raelle groans, pulling the blankets up higher around her. "Go away, Tal," she mumbles into her pillow, already drifting back to unconsciousness. Whatever it is that Tally needs, it can wait. Raelle's exhausted. The horrible dream had kept haunting her well into dawn; she'd only managed to finally succumb to sleep once the first early rays of sunlight had begun to filter through the curtains. 

She doesn't want to get out of bed, tired and sore. Her limbs ache. A fresh throb of a cramp shoots across her abdomen and she groans again, curling up into a ball. 

But Tally is insistent. "Raelle, it's important."

She sounds more serious than Raelle's ever heard her before and she feels herself being forcibly drawn into wakefulness.

Abigail, now, her disembodied voice hollow:

"They found a body."

*

A crowd's gathered around the top of the stone staircase by the library. 

Raelle can't see much; only the red and blue flash of police lights and a few officers standing off to the side talking with reporters. She stands on tiptoe, craning her head to try and catch a glimpse of anything else. She catches snippets of hushed conversations around her:

" — found her this morning — "

" — said she was pale, like, unnaturally so — "

" — it's the stress from finals, I _swear_ — "

"It's Libba," Abigail mutters despondently. She's standing beside Raelle with her arms crossed, a knit cap pulled down low. She's shivering, but Raelle can't tell if it's from the cold or something else. "Libba Swythe. She is — was — in my Principles of Economics class. We were supposed to go over our notes for our group presentation this morning, but she never showed." She pauses, inhaling shakily, eyes shiny with tears. "And then we heard — " 

Tally shushes her quietly, wrapping her arms around Abigail. Raelle rubs Abigail's arm comfortingly, feeling dazed. She twists the ring on her index finger, the metal ice-cold to the touch. 

"Come on," she says gruffly, turning to her roommates. "We don't need to be here." 

*

They sit in the common room in silence. 

Glory's made coffee; she passes them each a little Styrofoam cup before settling on the couch next to Tally, drawing her knees to her chest. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she looks as numb as Raelle feels. Raelle hadn't even known that Glory and Libba were friends; Tally informed her in a whisper that they'd both been in the school's service sorority. 

Raelle wishes Scylla was here. She wants to feel Scylla's arms around her, holding her close, murmuring gentle words of comfort into her ear. Scylla would understand Raelle's grief immediately; it didn't matter that she hadn't known Libba at all. Just the _proximity_ of death is enough to leave Raelle feeling rattled. 

But Scylla's likely still asleep in her apartment, blissfully unaware of the horror that's transpired. And as much as Raelle wants to run to her, seeking solace, she can't leave her friends just yet. Even if she has nothing to offer them but her presence; a reassurance she'll be there if they need her. 

It's Glory who speaks first. "You know," she starts hoarsely. "Someone else died on campus last year, too." 

Abigail grimaces. "What? Who told you that?" 

"Anacostia." Glory sniffles. "She's a senior in our sorority. There was this girl, Helen Graves. She went missing during a snowstorm. They didn't find her until months later, when spring came around. By then . . . " 

Tally looks appalled. "That's horrible." 

Glory nods timidly. "I know. I-I was just thinking . . . I'm glad that didn't happen to Libba." Her lower lip trembles. She looks like she's about to burst into tears again. "Y-you know?" 

Raelle knows. She's reminded, horribly, of the day she learned her mother died overseas. She can still remember the blank look on her father's face as he relayed the news. A bomb in Beirut. There wasn't much left to send home. 

She stares into her coffee, black as night. 

* 

"I heard what happened." Scylla's expression is grim. 

Raelle falls into her arms, finally giving way to the sting of tears. 

"It's okay," Scylla says, pressing feather-light kisses to the side of Raelle's head and stroking her hair. "It's okay. You're safe. I promise." 

* 

A week passes, then another, and slowly things start to feel normal again. 

Life carries on, no matter what. It always feels as though a death should make the world stop turning on its axis. And yet, it never does. There's still classes to go to, papers to write, exams to take. And with Thanksgiving right around the corner, no one wants to be thinking about what happened to Libba. Rumors continue to circulate around campus as to how she died, but with it officially being ruled an accident, everyone's happy to allow the incident to slip away quietly. 

She had a nightmare two days after Libba's murder. In it she dreamt that she was being chased through campus by the red-eyed shadow creature. She ran until she reached the steps where Libba's body was found; she could hear the creature's growl of triumph as it caught her, teeth as sharp as knives tearing into her skin. 

She'd shot awake, grappling terrified at her neck, certain she could feel the hot pouring of blood. 

Since that night, she's taken care to avoid the stone walkway. 

Tally and Abigail go home for the holiday, but Raelle doesn't; it's too long of a drive for only the weekend. And besides, her father tells her over the phone, he has to work anyway. There's no sense in her making the trip. 

"But you better come down over Christmas," he says, in a jokingly stern tone. "And bring that girl of yours, yeah?" 

He says it so casually — Raelle feels a rush of appreciation and fondness. He's never been anything but genuinely supportive about Raelle liking girls. She knows that she's lucky in this regard; she's read all the awful stories about kids who've been disowned by their families. 

"I will, Dad," she promises. 

Scylla herself is delighted, when Raelle tells her. "I haven't celebrated Christmas properly in _ages_ ," she says, cuddling Mircalla. 

_What about your aunt?_ Raelle wants to ask. 

But she holds back, afraid it might be too invasive of a question. Scylla had mentioned that she and her aunt weren't very close; perhaps that was what Scylla meant. Raelle imagines the loneliness Scylla must feel — her parents being gone, her only other family being coolly absent — and affection surges through her, a desire to protect Scylla, to make her feel wanted and loved. 

And as soon as she's thought that, she knows: 

It _is_ love. 

She _loves_ Scylla. 

Raelle draws her in for a kiss, heart swelling, happiness streaking through her like a comet. 

* 

It's pouring outside — a chill, sleeting kind of rain that signals winter is truly right around the corner. Raelle's bundled up in a thick sweater and a soft, fluffy blanket, reading a book for her elective American Literature class while Scylla sits at her desk, studying. 

The news is on in the background, but the volume's turned way down low — it's only when she hears the word _body_ that she looks up, curious. A news anchor with a platinum blonde blowout is talking about the body of a man being found in a park in Stoneham. Raelle reaches for the remote, ticking the volume up a little higher so she can hear properly. 

She can feel the blood drain from her face when a picture comes up of the victim. 

Over the weekend she and Scylla had ridden the T into Boston for dinner, Scylla claiming that their two month anniversary was _very important_ and she wanted to do something nice to help Raelle take her mind off of things. She'd taken Raelle out to a fancy French restaurant within a stone's throw of the Charles River, then later they'd walked along the bank, arm-in-arm, enjoying the night air. 

It would have been a perfect date, if not for what happened on the way back to the train stop to catch the last ride back. 

They passed a bar, rowdy with drunk college football fans. Outside, a group of boys were leaning against the wall, smoking and chatting. One of them — a lanky boy with close-cropped, dirty blonde hair and sporting an oversized Boston College sweatshirt had leered at them as they walked by, offering up a lewd suggestion that they come join him for the evening. 

When Scylla sneered at him in response, pulling Raelle closer, his mouth twisted into an ugly snarl. 

_Dykes,_ he'd spit, taking a rough drag of his cigarette. 

Raelle had felt equal parts scared and furious; it was only Scylla's low muttering of, _keep walking, just ignore him, come on_ that kept her from turning around and throwing a punch. Which had probably been for the best, seeing as he had at least a good foot of height on her and was surrounded by all his stupid, jock-looking friends who howled with laughter and shouted catcalls at Raelle and Scylla's retreating forms, voices echoing off the wet pavement. 

Not that it mattered now. 

_Porter Tippet,_ the woman is saying on television, her mouth set in a solemn, flat line as she reads off the sheet of paper in her hands. _Twenty-five years old; graduate student at BC; originally from Tewksbury._

_Suspected coyote attack._ The camera switches to pan across a wooded area that Raelle supposes is meant to show where his body was found. _Police urge residents to take caution._

"Scylla," Raelle says, sitting up straighter. "Look." 

Scylla doesn't turn, too engrossed in her work. "What?" 

"Do you remember that guy who was harassing us? This is too weird — his body was in a park a couple towns over. Guess it was some sort of animal attack? At least, that's what they're saying." Raelle shudders, the images of the beast from her nightmares suddenly springing, unbidden, to the forefront of her mind. She can't even imagine. 

"Hm." Scylla licks her index finger, turning a page. She doesn't look up from her notes. "Oh, well. No loss." 

"Scyl!" Raelle frowns. "That's awful." 

Scylla leans back in her chair with a sigh. "He was a homophobe, Raelle. And a total asshole on top of that. When I think of what he might have done if we weren't in such a public place . . . " She casts a downward gaze at the carpet repentantly. "I'm sorry if I sound cruel. I just hate people like him. And I'm stressed about finals." 

Raelle shuffles over to her, draping the blanket over them both and leaning down to kiss her. "You'll do fine," she says, nosing the hair away from Scylla's neck and kissing the space behind her ear. "They're weeks away. And besides: you're brilliant." 

"Charmer." Scylla lets out a tiny laugh. "You're trying to seduce me, aren't you, Ms. Collar?" 

Raelle grins. "Is it working?" 

Scylla only laughs again and kisses her, climbing out of her chair and tugging Raelle towards the bed, the dead man already forgotten. 

* 

For a little while, Raelle does not dream at all — or, at least, she doesn't remember if she does.

But all too soon, the nightmares return. 

It's not the blood-eyed creature, exactly. The eyes are still red, but the shape is more feline now. Like a large, slinking black cat. It paces around the bed, tongue lolling, ivory teeth sharp and menacing. She can never move in these dreams, only lie in petrified terror as the creature creeps onto the bed, hovering above her, panting hotly. _Hungrily_. Raelle can smell its sour, meaty breath and her stomach twists in fear and nausea. 

It stares at her for seemingly hours, then bites down onto her chest. 

Raelle always wakes to the sensation of blood spattering across her face. 

She's always alone in these dreams — except for a single instance, on the very first evening of December. In this particular dream, Scylla is beside her. But it feels _wrong_ , somehow. And when Raelle calls her name, in panic, Scylla rolls over to greet her with a hideous smile: her mouth crowded with long, razor-sharp teeth, her face red with gore, eyes wild and inhuman. 

And it's awful and Raelle's retching and screaming and — 

" — Raelle!" 

It's Scylla, shaking her awake. 

"Raelle, sötnos. You're shouting." 

Raelle sits up. Her t-shirt is soaked through with sweat, her hair sticking to her face. 

Scylla listens patiently as Raelle, trembling, recounts her dream. She strokes Raelle's damp hair away from her face, pressing light, comforting kisses to her shoulder. When at last Raelle's done, Scylla eases out of bed and goes to the kitchen to make them both a cup of tea. 

"For a time I used to have nightmares too," Scylla says, handing Raelle a steaming mug. "About my parents. It was years after they died. But I would dream that I was with them when it happened. It was horrible, the images my brain could conjure up. Gruesome, awful things that shamed and terrified me." She frowns, reaching out to stroke a stretching Mircalla, who purrs gently and hops into Raelle's lap. "But eventually, the dreams went away." 

Raelle watches the tip of Mircalla's tail twitch back and forth. "Libba dying reminded me of when my mom died," she admits softly, after a moment. "Do you — do you think that could be it?" 

Scylla nods thoughtfully. "It makes sense. You had a nightmare that happened to coincide with a terrible real life incident — and _that_ dredged up difficult past emotions. And now your brain's just trying to make sense of it all. It'll pass, in time. As for the giant black cat thing . . . " she chuckles, glancing down at Mircalla, who appears to have drifted off to sleep. "I think that's pretty easily explained, don't you?" 

"She _is_ a little menace, isn't she?" Raelle remarks fondly, scratching behind Mircalla's ears. "Always scaring me." 

When she finishes her tea, Scylla dutifully takes their mugs over to the sink, depositing them with a slight _clink_. 

"Let's stay up a little while, shall we?" she says, crossing the room to turn on the television. "We can just sit on the couch and watch a movie. Tomorrow's Saturday; you've got all day to sleep in." 

It's a sweet offering, and, not for the first time, Raelle almost blurts out an _I love you_. But she's waiting for the right time to say it. The words feel so enormous, so important; she doesn't want to waste them on such a small, silly moment like this. 

So instead she gently removes Mircalla from her lap and climbs out of bed to join Scylla on the couch, content to let the words go unspoken a little while longer. 

* 

"Oh, look, it's snowing," Tally remarks cheerfully. 

They're at lunch, clustered together in the rear of the crowded dining hall at the only open table they could find. However, the spot provides them a surprisingly picturesque view of the sweeping athletic fields. And indeed it is snowing: big, fat snowflakes drifting down lazily from thick, dull gray clouds that hung ominously low in the sky. 

Raelle vaguely remembers hearing they were in for an early December storm. She casts a disinterested glance out the window. "Oh." 

She stares at her plate. She doesn't feel hungry at all. She wishes she could be outside, lying in the football field, surrounded by nothing but the cool rush of wind and snow, silent and still. She has a terrible headache; she can feel her blood pounding in her temple, a low, awful throb. It's too loud in here; all around them students laugh and converse loudly. It seems as though she can hear every click and scrape of silverware against the ceramic plates, every rasp of chair legs sliding along the worn carpet. She wonders how anyone can stand it. 

"You know," Abigail begins lightly. She's pouring a copious amount of dressing into her salad. Satisfied, she jabs her fork into a chunk of lettuce. When she meets Raelle's eyes, her brows are knitted in concern. "You don't look good at all. Are you feeling okay?" 

"I'm fine," Raelle says, rubbing at her eyes. "I'm tired, that's all. I haven't been sleeping well." 

Tally nods thoughtfully. "Finals nerves?" Her mouth curves into a sly, playful grin. "Or is it just Scylla keeping you up?" 

Raelle shrugs, mumbling about all the papers she has left to write. Tally seems placated, but Raelle can feel Abigail's eyes boring into her as she forces herself to put a soggy, ketchup-drenched fry in her mouth, chewing slowly. It's tasteless. Her stomach roils. She can't tell Tally and Abigail the truth about her nightmares; she'll sound crazy. She's already half-convinced she _is_ losing her mind — she doesn't need them to share that sentiment. 

She doesn't want to be _here_ , either. She wants to be curled up in Scylla's bed, hazy with exhaustion, warm and comforted by her girlfriend's arms around her. Or lounging together on the couch, watching black and white movies on television while Mircalla lies at their feet, purring gently. Scylla's apartment, where everything is quiet and safe and the rest of the world melts away. 

But right now Scylla's practically locked up in the lab across campus, working hard to finish all her work before the end of the semester. 

"You need to focus," she told Raelle that morning, planting a soft kiss to the tip of Raelle's nose before extracting herself from Raelle's grasp and climbing out of bed. "You can't lose your scholarship because of me." 

She sounded almost guilty, and it'd tugged at Raelle's heartstrings. She watched Scylla flit around the kitchen clad only in underwear and a loose t-shirt, her hair still messy from sleep: pouring food out for Mircalla; putting the kettle on; turning up the thermostat. Not for the first time, Raelle found herself charmed by the sight of Scylla looking so casually domestic. 

If only they could be like that, always. Just the two of them. 

"Sorry," Raelle says now, pushing herself away from the table and standing up. "I really need to go study." 

She grabs her coat and backpack, hurrying off before either Tally or Abigail can respond. 

* 

At least the library is quiet. 

Raelle puts on her headphones, clicking Walkman on; the melancholic violins of _Adagio for Strings_ fills her ears. She's taken a liking for classical music, thanks to Scylla. Before, she used to find it intolerably dull; now it soothes her, draws her mind into sharp focus. She uncaps her highlighter and begins dutifully reading through her class notes. 

She can feel her headache receding, her muscles relaxing as she slips into the numb exercise of studying. 

She doesn't know how long she stays there, startled only by a pair of hands slipping around her head to cover her eyes. She grins, feeling the slight brush of soft hair against the nape of her neck, hot breath on her ear. Scylla noses one of the earpads away, murmurs _guess who?_ in a low, playful voice that makes Raelle's heart swell. 

She puts her hand on top of Scylla's, pulling it away gently; Raelle turning in her seat to grin up at Scylla, who returns the look, her face slightly ruddy from the cold. She's bundled up in a fitted black peacoat and classic Burberry scarf, hair hanging loose under a plain obsidian ragg wool hat. Her hair and clothes are damp, the light dusting of snow on them melting in the heat of the library. 

As always, she looks radiantly beautiful. 

For just a moment, Raelle allows their fingers to interlace. 

But then she remembers where they are, and she lets her hand fall away. 

"It's late," Scylla tells her, and it's then when Raelle casts a glance at the clock hanging on the wall above a row of reference books. Scylla fishes a pair of fancy cranberry leather gloves out of her jacket pocket. "Let's go. It's cold; I'm in want of hot chocolate." 

Then, in a much lower voice, barely above a whisper, she adds with a wolfish grin, "And you, of course." 

Raelle feels a bolt of _want_ streak through her, quick and electric. She shuffles her belongings together, stuffing them into her backpack. She's forgotten all about how lousy she felt at lunch, the sluggishness of her muscles and the wicked headache. She suddenly feels wide awake, energized by the promise of Scylla's mouth and fingers, her blood thrumming with energy. 

Shrugging on her coat, she follows Scylla out into the storm. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Kittery, ME | February, 1999**

Raelle leans back in her chair with a groan, closing her eyes and listening to the creak and groan of the baseboard heaters coming to life, a familiar, but faint, acrid burning scent filling the air. She really needs to do a better job of dusting up here. She stretches out her arms, folding her hands behind her head. Behind her eyelids she can still see the blue-white glow of the monitor, the tiny pixelated black lettering.

She's making better progress than she expected to; even now she's surprised at how easily the words come, her fingers darting across the keyboard fluidly. She'll be done before she knows it. 

And then — what? 

She still hasn't decided.

But there's time for that, yet.

She straightens up, rolling her shoulders and flexing her fingers. 

So much more left to write.

* * *

**SUMMERVILLE, SC | WINTER OF 1988**

The afternoon following Raelle's last final, three days before Christmas, they fly down to South Carolina.

Raelle had planned to drive, but Scylla had scoffed in disbelief.

"Raelle, it's practically a whole day's drive," she'd said, folding her clothes neatly into a small suitcase. "Besides, what if it storms?"

They were valid arguments, but Raelle'd still made a half-hearted protest anyway. She felt self-conscious about Scylla always paying for everything — and _expensive_ things, at that. But Scylla had taken Raelle's hands in her own and assured her that it was _fine_ , that if she wasn't flying down to South Carolina, she'd just be going somewhere else anyway, so the money would be spent either way.

"At least let me spend it on you," Scylla said, smiling and kissing Raelle's cheek. "Heaven knows I've spent enough on _myself_ to last four lifetimes."

Scylla calls Byron to drive them to the airport; he spends the whole time good-naturedly teasing that Scylla's spiriting away Raelle for a debauched holiday. It makes Scylla blush, and Raelle can't help but laugh. There's such an ease between Scylla and Byron; they banter in the kind of way that shows they've been friends for years. It makes Raelle happy, watching them. She knows Scylla doesn't have many ― if _any_ ― other close friends. Seeing Scylla like this, so carefree ― giggling and joking ― it's just plain _nice_. 

Raelle thinks she could spend her whole life falling in love with Scylla's smile.

Byron drops them off with a promise that he'll stop by Scylla's apartment every day to check on Mircalla.

"I've never flown before," Raelle confesses on their walk to the gate. 

Logan Airport's practically overflowing with people; Scylla strides through the crowd purposefully, looking regal in her sunglasses, peacoat, and windswept hair, a slim leather carry-on bag slung over one shoulder. Raelle can't help but lag behind, partly overwhelmed and a little awed; she's seen planes before, of course, but not big commercial jets like this, framed by the city's outline.

It's begun to snow; fat, fluffy snowflakes that drift down lazily from the dove-gray sky. 

Scylla tosses her hair, pushing her sunglasses up to the crown of her head as she leads Raelle to a little coffee stand. "It's nothing, really. And besides — " she pauses, giving her order to the frazzled looking barista, " — we're flying First Class, of course."

"Scylla — "

Scylla laughs as she swipes her credit card. "Oh, Raelle. I knew you'd object, which is why I didn't tell you." She flashes Raelle a grin. "But it _is_ adorable how worked up you get."

Raelle huffs. "I just feel like a kept woman, sometimes, is all," she mutters, once Scylla's retrieved her latte and they're out of earshot of the barista. "It's . . . "

She doesn't want to say it out loud: that it makes her feel inadequate.

Scylla's so glamorous; she drips class from every angle. Raelle can't even _imagine_ being able to not worry about money, at recklessly spending on a moment's whim. And, perhaps, on some level she's embarrassed, too — she can't repay Scylla in kind. She only has her meager savings from her summer job, and even that will be gone by the end of the school year; already she's dreading having to spend her whole break sweating away in the hot summer sun, tumbling into bed every evening with all her muscles aching.

"Käresta." Scylla looks charmed. "I understand how you feel. My aunt is wealthy, yes. But my parents . . . " she trails off, sobering a little, turning her cup in her hands. "They didn't have money. It was . . . really hard sometimes." Her smile is wry. "I guess in a way I'm lucky, since now I don't have to worry about it."

Raelle bites her lip, looking away abashedly.

She couldn't have known, of course. But Scylla's always been so generous — and not just with her. When Raelle had mentioned Glory was collecting donations for a children's charity for Christmas, Scylla rolled out of bed, procuring three crisp hundred-dollar bills from her wallet. She handed them to Raelle with a shrug, as if it were nothing; she'd even insisted Raelle tell Glory it was an _anonymous_ donation. 

Now, knowing the truth, Raelle wonders if part of Scylla's generosity stems from guilt.

If she herself came into money only because her parents died —

Scylla waves her hand, as if dismissing the conversation entirely. "The point is," she tells Raelle, settling down into a chair by the tall windows overlooking the runaway. "You're . . . special to me. And I quite like spoiling you."

She smiles, and Raelle curses the fact that they're in public; she wants to kiss Scylla so badly she can hardly stand it.

How did she ever get so lucky to have met her?

*

Edwin seems just as — if not _more_ — charmed with Scylla than Raelle is.

He meets them at the airport in his worn but trusty Subaru Justy, throwing his arms around Raelle and wrapping her up into a tight embrace while Scylla lingers a few feet behind, luggage at her feet, looking suddenly shy.

"So _this_ is the lovely Ms. Ramshorn," Edwin says, shaking her hand and tossing an exaggerated wink in Raelle's direction. "Raelle's told me all about you."

Scylla looks positively delighted. "Oh, she _has_ , has she?" she glances at Raelle, eyes sparkling, the corners of her mouth crooking up into a grin. "All good things, I hope."

Raelle flushes, hurriedly grabbing their luggage and loading it into the back of her dad's hatchback. 

She's quiet the whole drive. It's embarrassing to listen to her father's well-intentioned interrogation of Scylla as the car trundles down worn backroads. Secretly, though, she's rather pleased; it's the first time she's ever been able to introduce her dad to a girl she likes. And, more importantly, Scylla's excellent at fielding his questions, answering them all dutifully with a cheerful smile.

But it makes Raelle sad, too; she misses her mom. It's been three years now, but sometimes she feels a pang of grief so sharp that she feels like she's bleeding inside. She stares out the window, blinking away sudden tears. At least she still has her dad — he's always been a good judge of character. And it's clear he approves of Scylla.

Which, now, is all that matters.

Later, bags sitting open, though not unpacked, in Raelle's bedroom, Scylla knits her fingers into Raelle's sweater and pulls her in for a gentle kiss. 

"I've been wanting to do that for hours," she murmurs against Raelle's lips.

A little hot streak of arousal pulses through Raelle at that; she pushes into the kiss a little harder, delighting in the way Scylla moans and grinds their hips together. Raelle's mind runs wild, thinking about the idea of Scylla dropping to her knees right now, tugging Raelle's jeans down to her knees just like when —

It's a short-lived daydream; a second later, Scylla's pulling away and reaching for her coat.

"Come on," she says. "Give me the tour."

*

Downtown is decked out in full Christmas regalia, as expected. 

It's no New England winter — the temperature's cool but pleasant and everything is still lush and green — but the festive spirit is still just as evident. Lights are strung up everywhere, all along the trees and storefront awnings. Evergreen wreaths with giant red bows dangle from the streetlights. In the center square there's a tall, fat tree aglow, a giant golden star sitting primly on top. 

They're too late for the annual Christmas parade, but the skating rink is still up; when they pass by, Scylla grabs hold of Raelle's sleeve and begs for a turn. Raelle's never learned to skate; she leans on the side railing and watches as Scylla laces up. She glides across the ice with practiced ease, cutting her way through the crowds, skirting delicately around a group of giggling kids windmilling their arms in an attempt to stay upright.

It's another thing for Raelle to add to the list of things she's learned about Scylla. 

At one point Scylla does a tiny little pirouette, right in the middle of the rink; Raelle whoops playfully, making a shot of clapping in approval. Scylla winks at her over her shoulder, then skates away with a smooth backwards crossover. When at last she's satisfied, Raelle greets her at the entrance with a cup of hot chocolate, piled high with mini marshmallows and whipped cream.

Scylla dabs a bit of whipped cream on the tip of Raelle's nose, laughing like it's the funniest thing she's ever seen. 

Warmth blooms in Raelle's chest. It's so nice, being here with Scylla. She's sure Scylla's been to many places _much_ nicer and more interesting than Summerville, but Scylla doesn't act like that's true at all; she seems genuinely interested in Raelle's mundane stories about the two years she spent here before heading off to Danvers State. 

She loops their arms together, unaware — or, more likely, unconcerned — about what anyone might think. It's such a plain, simple act, but here and now it feels strangely intimate. And, yet . . . Raelle finds she doesn't care. That's what Scylla does to her; she makes Raelle feel brave. 

"Hey," Raelle says, as they begin to make their way back to her house where Edwin's surely waiting with dinner. "This might be awkward, but, um, would you mind if we made a stop on the way home?"

Scylla nods. "Whatever you want, Raelle. I'm happy just spending time with you."

She leans in dangerously close; Raelle's glad for the semi-darkness of the street.

*

It's hard to believe it's been months since she visited her mother's grave.

In high school, Raelle had always made a habit of visiting once a week. She knew that her mom wasn't really there, but there was something soothing about sitting silently on the grass and running her fingers over the smooth stone, tracing the engraved letters. Sometimes, just for a moment, she could close her eyes and pretend that her mom was with her again.

She could imagine her mom holding her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. 

_I love you. More than the stars above._

"She used to write to me all the time," Raelle tells Scylla, as Raelle kneels on the grass, resting her palm flat against the headstone. "When she was deployed overseas, she sent me so many things. Letters and postcards. Little souvenirs. I had — have — this whole box of them. I only brought a few with me to school. But every now and then I re-read them again. It's like having her close to me. If only for a heartbeat."

Scylla stands behind her, hands in her pockets, sober and quiet. After a long moment she says, "You miss her a lot, don't you?"

Raelle can't speak. She can only nod, swiping at her eyes.

*

The bells from the church down the road begin to ring as they leave, signaling the upcoming mass.

Scylla goes rigid, her face twisting into a pained expression.

"Scylla?" Raelle reaches for her, concerned. "What's wrong?"

Scylla shudders. "It's the church bells," she says with a grimace. "They're horrid."

"Right . . . " Raelle frowns, confused. She knows that Scylla isn't religious, but this seems like a bit of an overreaction. "Sorry, they do that before and after mass every time. I didn't think it would be a problem."

Scylla cringes, then visibly relaxes as the last chime is struck. She fusses with her jacket, straightening the collar, smoothing her hands down the front.

"I'm sorry, Raelle," she says, looking flustered. "It's ridiculous, I know, but bells have always reminded me of my parents' funerals. Remember I would have nightmares? For some reason bells always featured prominently." She rubs irritatedly at her temple, eyes squeezed shut. "I can't stand to hear them now."

"It's not silly," Raelle says soothingly. She pulls Scylla close to her. "I understand. But . . . " she smiles thinly. "I suppose this means you won't be joining my Dad and I for midnight mass on Christmas Eve?"

Raelle's not very religious either, truth be told. She wouldn't even go so far as to consider herself lapsed — she's never felt any sort of religious _pull_ in any direction whatsoever. Despite the Collar family's shared ambivalence, though, Christmas Eve mass had always been a tradition for them for as long as Raelle could remember. She's quite certain her parents had only done it to placate _their_ families. 

Scylla offers her a tiny smile. "It's . . . not really my thing." She bites her lip, looking sincerely apologetic. "Sorry. But, you go. I'll stay up and wait for you in bed."

Raelle grins. "Is that a promise?"

"Cross my heart." Scylla mimics the action, then shocks Raelle by stealing a quick kiss.

She's happy to be left speechless on the sidewalk, staring stupidly at Scylla, who laughs and beckons for her to catch up.

*

On Christmas Eve, Raelle presents Scylla with her gift.

She already gave Scylla two small things before they'd left school, though both of them had really been for Mircalla. Raelle'd bought the little cat a new bed, gray and blue plaid fabric with plush white lining. Mircalla had sniffed it suspiciously for a moment, then hopped inside, pawing at it curiously. Raelle was pleased to see her curled up in it later that evening, sound asleep.

The other thing had been a Burberry patterned bow — Raelle had presented it to Scylla with a lopsided grin, saying that now she and Mircalla could be matching during the winter.

Scylla had been delighted; she'd tied it on Mircalla with a giggle and snapped a half dozen photos of her with her Polaroid before Mircalla's patience wore thin and she scampered off to hide under the bed.

Thinking of a present for Scylla had been _hard_ though. Scylla never mentioned wanting anything, and, as Raelle knew well by now, she had the means to treat herself whenever she liked. That, plus Raelle's modest savings, meant buying something expensive was off the table. 

She'd thought long and hard about it; she couldn't help but stress; she wanted it to be perfect.

And, then, she'd remembered —

Scylla, back when they'd first met, standing in Raelle's dorm room, running her fingers along the curve of Raelle's guitar case.

_Do you play?_

_Only a little._

_I'd like to hear it sometime._

Since that day, Raelle hadn't made good on her promise.

She doesn't have her guitar with her now; she'd kept it in her dorm room so as not to spoil the surprise, asking her dad if he could tune up the old one they still had out in the garage. 

On Christmas Eve, she leaves Scylla — eyes closed, waiting impatiently, sprawled out on the floor under the glow of the tree and the small, smoldering fire — as she ducks into her room to grab the guitar that she snuck in earlier when Scylla was helping Edwin with dinner. 

When Scylla opens her eyes, she clasps her hands together, face lighting up with delight and surprise. "Oh!" she exclaims with a wide smile, crossing her legs and sitting up straight. "You remembered."

"It's not much," Raelle says shyly, hoisting the guitar up and strumming a few chords to check the sound. "But, I said I'd play for you sometime . . . It's the first time I've ever played for anyone else, other than my parents." She shifts on the couch, settling into a comfortable position.

Then, finally, she begins to play.

It's Scylla's favorite song: _Canon in D_.

She watches Raelle with a soft, starry-eyed expression, eyes shining.

And when it ends, Scylla kisses her, and it's like being in the sunshine, all warm and gentle.

Scylla doesn't need to say anything at all; Raelle knows she's chosen perfectly.

*

"Mmm," Scylla purrs in Raelle's ear as Raelle crawls into bed beside her, having shucked off her dress clothes and changed into a tank top and boxers. "How was it?"

Raelle nuzzles against Scylla's neck, peppering it with tiny, light kisses. "Church? Fine. Though right now I'm surprised I didn't burst into flames when I walked inside."

Scylla laughs. "I'm afraid that's what would happen to me."

Raelle grins, her mouth skimming along Scylla's bare shoulder. She'd felt too tired the other evening to do anything but cuddle, but now her blood is thrumming with desire. "Less talking," she murmurs against Scylla's neck. "More kissing." She wraps her arm around Scylla, who rolls over onto her side so that she can kiss Raelle properly.

They kiss like that for a little while, languid and deliberate. Every so often Scylla's hips give the tiniest of juts against Raelle; it sends sparks shooting up and down Raelle's body. She's desperately wet between her legs, aching with need, but she wills herself to be patient. Her dad's in bed and the house is quiet and she's got a beautiful woman in her bed on Christmas Eve. It's wondrously electrifying, more than she could have ever imagined — she wants to make this moment last. 

Scylla nips at her bottom lip. "Hungry," she mumbles against Raelle's mouth. 

It _has_ been hours since they've eaten; Raelle's stomach grumbles a little, as if on cue. She starts to sit up, but Scylla catches her arm and slowly pulls her back down for another kiss.

"Not _that_ ," Scylla tells her, grinning mischievously. "Not yet, anyway."

She quirks an eyebrow suggestively. When their mouths meet again, Raelle can feel her smiling into the kiss. She brings her hand up to cup Scylla's face as their kisses grow more passionate, deeper. Scylla's hand lingers on Raelle's hip; her grip tightens as she draws their bodies flush. 

"We'll have to be quiet," Scylla says, when they finally pull apart. She sits up on her knees, gazing down at Raelle with a soft expression. Raelle's heart leaps at the flush on her face, the breathiness of her voice. She leans in and kisses Raelle once more, hard, before slinking down to her knees beside the bed, drawing Raelle with her until Raelle's hips are at the edge of the mattress.

"I've been waiting to give you your present," she tells Raelle in a tone thick with lust. "Well, part of it, anyway."

Raelle props herself up on her elbows. Scylla's between her legs, looking up at Raelle with heavy-lidded eyes, lips parted slightly. She looks _ravenous_ — there's no better word for it; she looks like she wants to eat Raelle up, and Raelle can't quite suppress the groan the sight induces from her. She reaches out for Scylla; Scylla catches her hand and kisses her knuckles, cradles the palm against her cheek for a moment, leaning into the touch with a sigh.

Scylla hooks her fingers into the elastic waistband of Raelle's boxers; Raelle lifts her hips up so that Scylla can pull them down and off. Raelle moans as Scylla gently pushes her knees apart. 

"Shh." Scylla leaves a trail of hot, damp kisses along the inside of Raelle's thigh. "Just lie back and relax."

Her hands slide up Raelle's legs, spreading them further apart. She presses a kiss near the apex of Raelle's thighs and Raelle whimpers, eyes rolling back in her head. She collapses down onto the bed, feeling light-headed, as Scylla's teeth graze the soft skin of her thighs. Raelle can see the image in her mind's eye, the purple-red bruise she'll find tomorrow. 

"Easy," Scylla hums, and kisses the same spot on Raelle's other thigh as Raelle's hand finds the back of her head, fingers digging into her hair. Scylla presses a few more light kisses along the inside of Raelle's legs, before moving forward, dragging her tongue up the length of Raelle.

Raelle tenses and sighs, pushing up a little into Scylla's mouth. " _Scylla_." The slow pace is making her head spin; she's desperate, wanton and whimpering on the bed as Scylla's tongue moves in languorous circles. 

"Scylla," she pleads softly. "Scylla, more, please."

Scylla works her hand free and slides one, then two fingers into Raelle, thrusting shallowly. Raelle groans, pressing into her hand; she hooks her leg over Scylla's shoulder, pressing her heel encouragingly into Scylla's back. Raelle's so close already, trembling; she feels like a bowstring being drawn taunt. 

And then Scylla's mouth is pulling away, her teeth are digging into Raelle's thigh, and Raelle gasps, flooded with a familiar euphoria. There's a warm, wet rush and somewhere, hazily, she thinks she's positively _dripping_ with wetness, hovering on the cusp of orgasm, and she grips the sheets so tightly her arms shake with the strain of it. Scylla's fingers never stop; they curl up, stroking purposefully, her thumb bumping clumsily against Raelle's clit. 

It's blood, it's all blood; Raelle feels it pounding in her ears, thinks of the last time Scylla was on her knees, her mouth and chin wet and shiny and _red_ , and _God_ , Raelle'd been so shameless, so needy —

She comes with a sharp gasp, bucking up against Scylla's mouth, biting down hard on her bottom lip to stifle a cry.

Scylla helps her come down, pulling away slowly. She pauses to wipe her mouth on the back of her hand before she climbs back up onto the bed, letting herself be pulled in for a rough kiss. Raelle can taste herself on Scylla's tongue, but something else, too, something metallic and vaguely familiar. But she's too exhausted; she can't think about anything but Scylla in her arms, nestling in close. 

When at last she's caught her breath, sits up a little, nudging her hand between Scylla's legs, stroking her through her damp underwear. Scylla sighs and leans into the touch for a moment, then slowly extricates herself from their tangled embrace. 

Raelle looks at her, sleepy and a little confused. "Don't you want me to ― ?"

Scylla shakes her head. "I'm alright. Later."

Underneath the covers, her t-shirt has ridden up a little; Raelle traces tiny, looping circles along the exposed skin of her midriff. Scylla sighs contentedly, rolling onto her back and folding her arms behind her head, eyes closed. Raelle shuffles in closer, bowing her head to press a path of tiny kisses along Scylla's collarbone, to the dip at the base of her mouth ― then up even further.

"You should sleep," Scylla sighs. She shifts, reaching forward to brush the hair away from Raelle's face.

"Mm, not tired yet," Raelle mumbles against the crook of Scylla's neck.

Scylla laughs, caressing the side of Raelle's face fondly. " _Sleep_ ," she insists, tugging Raelle's hand away from where it's begun to creep further up her stomach, under her shirt. She loops her arms around Raelle, pulling her in for a kiss. "There'll be time for that later."

She looks ephemeral, lying here in Raelle's small bed, her dark hair splayed out across the pillow, with a smile so open, so unguarded.

It's enough for Raelle to know she's never loved anyone so much in her whole life.

*

When Raelle dreams, it's of this:

Scylla, walking through an endless field, a black cape draped around her shoulders, the moon like a halo behind her head.

*

She awakes hours later, the bed dipping and creaking.

It's Scylla, crawling in and nestling close. 

Raelle, torpid with semi-consciousness, reaches for her, fingers knitting into the front of Scylla's shirt. "Hey."

Scylla feels warm ― warmer than usual. She kisses Raelle very, very lightly.

"Go back to sleep, sötnos." 

She presses in close; Raelle puts her head against Scylla's chest, falls asleep to the faint, steady beat of her heart.

*

The next day, late into the morning, Raelle wakes to find a small box with royal blue wrapping paper and silvery ribbon done up into a simple bow. Attached is a tag: her name, written in Scylla's familiar sloping handwriting. 

Beside her, Scylla stirs; she rolls onto her side to face Raelle, eyes fluttering open slowly.

"Go on then," she says with a small yawn. "That's for you."

Raelle unwraps it carefully.

It's a small, rectangular box. Ruby-red with thick gold borders and lettering. _Cartier._ Inside is a watch, resting on silky white lining. The wrist strap is crocodile skin black leather, the casing and clasp a bright, polished gold. It's the most elegant and extravagant thing Raelle's ever seen; so small, yet probably worth more than an entire year's pay for her father.

Scylla's arms snake around Raelle's waist, hugging her tightly. She kisses Raelle's shoulder. "Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful," Raelle agrees. "But . . . I can't accept it. It's too much."

Scylla nuzzles against her neck. "Don't be silly. It's Christmas, isn't it? And I told you: I like spoiling you."

"Scyl ― "

She's hushed with a kiss pressed to her cheek. "My aunt told me to buy myself whatever I liked. Well, this is exactly what I wanted: for you to have something nice. Here," she continues fluidly, climbing out of bed and taking the box from Raelle's hands. "Let me."

She plucks the watch from its box, leaning down to fasten it around Raelle's wrist. Raelle holds her hand up, admiring it. The gold shines in the morning sunlight. The face is a pale cream color backing with bold black Roman numerals. 

"It's perfect." Scylla's grinning. "The moment I saw it, I knew I had to buy it for you. Remember the first day we met?"

Raelle remembers; the cold autumn air burning her lungs as she sprinted across campus. Scylla, stepping right into her path, the two of them tumbling to the ground. Scylla, laughing, teasing her for being late, her eyes sparkling like jewels. The way Raelle's heart had galloped away in her chest at the sight of her.

Scylla laces their fingers together, palms pressed flush. "Now you'll never have an excuse to be late."

Perhaps it's because it's Christmas and the sentiment of the moment is getting to her, but when Raelle looks up at Scylla ― hair mussed, dressed in plain, wrinkled pajamas; it's so _ordinary_ , nothing like the glamorous girl Raelle usually sees ― she suddenly looks more beautiful now than she's ever looked before. 

And, at last, there's only one thing left to say:

"I love you."

Scylla presses her to the bed with a kiss; she doesn't let up until Edwin knocks on the door, hours later, and quietly asks if they plan on coming down for lunch.

* * *

**KITTERY, ME | JANUARY, 1999**

_She thought herself stone, once, cold and unyielding._

_But not now. Not anymore. She is bursting like blood vessels under skin; she is blooming, red and brilliant. She is wild and drunk on this new feeling._

_And yet ―_

_There is no forever, not for them; she could never allow herself to do such a thing. It would be unspeakable; unbearable; too great and terrible a sacrifice to ask._

_But in quiet, still moments, she indulges herself; she lets daydreams take root and blossom. She can forget, at least for a little while, and it helps to soothe the sting of reality._

_She can pretend it does not kill her, these horrible,_ human _emotions._

_Pretending is an art form she's perfected._

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | WINTER OF 1989**

The new year arrives uneventfully.

Raelle spends the evening with Scylla, the two of them bundled up on the couch together watching _Happy New Year, America_ until the ball drops in Times Square at midnight. Scylla gives a tiny cheer and pulls Raelle in for a long kiss as fireworks explode on screen, _Auld Lang Syne_ swelling to a crescendo. 

Scylla pops open a bottle of champagne, giggling as it foams over, spilling onto the kitchen floor. They take turns tipping the bottle into each other's mouths until it's all gone. Raelle throws her arms around Scylla's neck and kisses her again, pushing her backwards towards the bed. They make love with hot, hurried passion, not even bothering to entirely undress. Scylla grinds against Raelle's thigh, her hand in Raelle's underwear, pressed between her legs, until they both come, straining and arching in a sweaty mess.

Tally and Abigail had invited Raelle to spend the evening with them at Gerit's party, but Raelle had politely declined. Watching Gerit and Tally be all lovey-dovey with each other was positively nauseating, and there wasn't anything fun about seeing Abigail on the prowl for a new fling. And although the idea of bringing Scylla along was tempting, Raelle hated the idea of them having to pretend to be just friends the whole time.

There's nothing she wants more than to be able to proudly introduce to Scylla as her girlfriend to everyone they meet. She wishes she could shout it from the rooftops.

Ushering in a new year with Scylla, buoyed up with love, the two of them lying in bed, sweaty and panting ― there could be nothing better.

Raelle's roommates don't understand.

Lately, Abigail's been complaining that Raelle spends more time at Scylla's place than she does in their dorm room. And while it might be _partially_ true, Abigail's been moodier than usual ever since Libba's death. Raelle doesn't fault her for that, but every time she thinks about Libba, those familiar awful pangs of grief start to creep back in. She doesn't want to think about Libba or her dead mom; her nightmares have once again abated, and she's afraid they might come back if all those old feelings are dredged back up.

She can't say that, though — it would feel like she was selfishly making Libba's death all about herself.

Which might be true, but it's much too distasteful to actually vocalize.

So she tries, in small ways, to make more of an effort. Tally and Abigail have always been kind to her, even after she came out. More so after then, even. It isn't fair to just ditch them completely for Scylla; she isn't going to lose the only real friends she's ever had. 

A few weeks later, when Glory asks if they'd like to help out at her sorority's fundraising event, Raelle's the first one to agree. She relishes the surprised but pleased looks on her friends' faces.

The fundraiser is a three-day event, going hand-in-hand with the regional high school basketball tournament the college hosts annually. Each of them has to work a single game, either attending the concession stand on the lower level or helping take tickets at the door.

"It's easy work," Raelle says airily. "When I was in high school I worked at a movie theater for a time. It's boring. But it's easy. Might be a bit too much work for _you_ though, Bells," she adds with a teasing smirk towards Abigail, who launches a pillow at her, barely suppressing an amused smile.

The assignments come in pairs: Tally with Glory, Abigail with a tall, floppy-haired boy named Adil. Raelle gets a late Friday afternoon spot, working concessions. She's matched up with Anacostia, a senior who she dimly remembers as someone Glory's mentioned before.

Anacostia's ROTC and it shows; she bosses everyone around like a drill sergeant. Raelle spends the afternoon on her feet, taking turns on the register and doling out popcorn and soda. It's mind-numbing work, but she doesn't really mind it; it's a nice distraction from the wearisome mid-term studies.

She's been slipping lately with her grades, and it weighs heavily on her mind. She can't afford to lose her scholarship and, more than that, she doesn't want to let down her father. Since the start of the new year, however, she's felt more and more rundown. It's not for lack of sleep — she's doing that more than ever now. But it never seems to be enough. Every morning her body feels weak and achy, and no amount of stretching or protein seems to help.

The love-bites Scylla leaves on her during their love making seem to linger longer and longer, too. Before, they used to be gone in only a few days. Now, Raelle can still see the mottled purple-gray spots on her chest and thighs even a whole week later. 

During halftime, the concession area floods with rowdy, impatient spectators. Raelle barely has time to think, darting to and fro. It's only after the crowd's begun to thin out a little that she notices Scylla standing off to the side, leaning against the wall and watching her with a bemused smile.

When the last of the patrons has left, wandering back upstairs to watch the rest of the game, Scylla approaches the counter.

She's got her hair down today, parted neatly in the middle. A pair of slim, silver hoops dangle from her ears. She's dressed plainly, in jeans and a knitted, oversized powder blue sweater with a soft white cloud pattern. She's got a black leather jacket draped over one arm.

"Thought I'd stop by and support the cause," she says with a playful smile, picking up a candy bar and brandishing it triumphantly. She produces a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet and offers it to Raelle. 

As Raelle takes it, Scylla's finger strokes purposefully along the back of her hand for a long second. It's an audacious, charged action that makes Raelle's mouth go dry. Scylla holds her gaze the whole time. 

"Keep the change," she tells Raelle with a wink.

If Anacostia notices it, she doesn't say anything.

In fact, the only time she speaks to Raelle at all — outside of barking out orders or instructing her to refill the popcorn machine — is when the game's over and they begin to clean, bundling everything up and packing the boxes into a small storage closet across the hall.

"It's strange," Anacostia comments while wiping down the counter with a damp rag. "I've seen a sweater just like that before."

Raelle, coming back from hauling a stack of boxes, wipes at her brow. "What?"

"That girl that stopped by," Anacostia elaborates. "Your friend — the one with the dark hair? That sweater she had on — a girl I used to know had one just like it. She wore it all the time." Her voice drops a pitch. She sounds a little sad. "It was her favorite."

"Oh," Raelle says, because she doesn't know what else to say. And, then, "Was?"

But as soon as she says it, she understands. She remembers the content in which Glory had mentioned Anacostia's name months ago. Anacostia's friend had died a year ago; they found her when the snowbank cleared out. Raelle reaches for the name in her mind — 

Helen.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "About . . . you know."

Anacostia nods stoically, but her eyes glisten. "It's okay. I mean, it's not. But it's easier now." She sags against the counter with a sigh. "I swear, though. I didn't realize it at first, but then it gave me a start." 

Raelle's about to say more, but suddenly Tally and the others come bounding down the stairs, laughing about something as they spill into the room. Immediately the air around them seems to change, the tension dissipating as quickly as it came.

Anacostia turns. "Thanks for helping out today."

She claps Raelle on the shoulder as she brushes by her, yelling a thanks and goodbye to the rest of the group.

Raelle watches her go, a strange, anxious feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

*

She can't stop thinking about the goddamn sweater.

What a stupid, innocuous thing to be keeping her preoccupied, but it's been hours now and she can't get it out of her head — she can't shake the odd feeling that comes with it. It's probably exhaustion that's making her ruminate so much, but if she doesn't ask, she knows it's just going to continue to drive her crazy.

There's no good way to ask, so that evening when Scylla's making them hot chocolate before bed, Raelle blurts out, "Did you know Helen Graves?"

Scylla doesn't meet her eyes. The spoon clinks against her mug as she stirs with deliberate purpose. Somehow the sound seems very loud in the silence of her apartment. "You mean, the girl that died last year."

She nudges Raelle's mug across the counter. Raelle cups it with both hands, blowing on it gently. "Yes, that's the one."

"Why?" Scylla's voice is cool and disaffected. She still won't look at Raelle.

"I thought . . . maybe you might have known her."

Now Scylla _does_ turn to look at her; her jaw is set, her mouth is a thin, flat line of annoyance. "Who told you that?"

"No one," Raelle says quickly. She bites her lip. "But, did you?"

"So what if I did?" Scylla's tone is hard now. She sounds a little angry. But there's a touch of fear in her words too, like she's being defensive. "Why are you even asking me about her?"

Raelle feels ridiculous now that actually has to say it out loud. "That sweater you were wearing today," she mumbles sheepishly against the rim of her mug. "Someone — Anacostia, that tall senior you met for a second — mentioned to me that Helen had the same one. She said it looked exactly the same."

"So, you're interrogating me over a _sweater_?" Scylla is sneering, incredulous.

Raelle's never seen her so irate before. Certainly Scylla's never spoken to her in such a cold, sharp way. It's startling. 

However, a second later Scylla's face relaxes, her expression turning solemn. She takes a sip from her own mug. When she speaks next, she sounds more like herself again.

"I knew Helen, yes," she tells Raelle. "She was a TA for one of my classes. We ended up sleeping together. But it was only a one-time thing — and it was _after_ I was done with the class. She left her sweater at my place and . . . I just kept it. We had a good time together, and I was just a blushing freshman. It's so stupid. And then she went missing and I couldn't say anything to anyone because . . . "

She trails off with a tiny, embarrassed laugh, and Raelle feels exceedingly foolish. She doesn't even know what she was expecting Scylla to say — but what else _could_ it have been but something as simple as this? She sets her half-empty mug down, rubbing her face. She's so tired; she's not thinking properly at all. She confesses as much.

"I'm sorry, Scyl." She takes Scylla's free hand in her own and squeezes it tight. "I don't even know — "

Scylla silences her with a kiss.

"It's okay," she says, warm and honeyed. "I'm sorry for lashing out. I should have mentioned it before. It's just . . . I don't talk about myself very often."

Raelle nods. A loose strand of hair has fallen loose from Scylla's low ponytail; she reaches up to tuck it up behind an ear. "I know."

*

Hours later, in bed, Scylla wraps her arms around Raelle's waist and leans in for a light kiss.

"I love you," she whispers, nuzzling her nose against Raelle's sweetly. "No matter what." 

Raelle drifts to sleep in her arms, savoring the feeling of contentment.

*

"This is a weird thing to bring up, I suppose," is how Scylla opens up a conversation one lazy Sunday afternoon when they're stretched out in her bed together, dozing in the midday sunlight. "But I've noticed something."

They've been in bed for hours. Scylla had woken Raelle up with a hand between her legs, fingers moving in slow, lazy circles, stoking the kindling embers in Raelle's belly into a roaring flame. Raelle sighed and pushed into the touch, rolling over a little and parting her legs slightly to allow Scylla further access. When Scylla had grown tired of this, she'd slid down Raelle's body, tongue lapping with an exquisite, leisurely pace, until Raelle was trembling and mewling, begging for release.

Raelle notches her arm behind her head, turning to gaze at Scylla, who's tracing feather-light script along Raelle's abdomen. "What is it?"

"It's probably nothing," Scylla says, in a light tone that sounds decidedly put-on. "It's just . . . I've noticed you haven't gotten your period in a while."

"Ugh." Raelle grimaces. "Yeah . . . "

The truth is, she's noticed it too, but rather than being worried, she's just been secretly relieved. It's always been nothing but a hassle for her. So far, she's chalked the change up to the stress of school and her increasingly irregular sleeping habits. She's just assumed that her body would sort itself out again, eventually.

Besides, Raelle points out, she's never seen Scylla have _hers_.

Scylla flushes a little. "I mentioned I'm on birth control, didn't I?" she mutters quickly. "Sometimes it stops them altogether, if you take it for long enough." She bows her head and kisses the swell of Raelle's breast, gazing up at Raelle with a soft, apprehensive expression. "Sorry. We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to. It's just . . . I couldn't help but notice and I started thinking . . . Well, you're _okay_ , right, Raelle?"

Raelle runs a hand through Scylla's hair. "Yeah, 'course," she assures her. "Why wouldn't I be?"

For a brief minute, a sadness flashes in her eyes, and Raelle gets the distinct impression that Scylla's holding back from saying more. But the feeling passes a second later, as Scylla bows her head again, licking at Raelle's nipple with the tip of her tongue, coaxing Raelle's legs open once more.

"I should get up," Raelle protests weakly, even as she sighs and arches against Scylla's touch. "I have so much homework due tomorrow. And I have a test to study for."

"Later," Scylla says. Her hand is on Raelle's knee. Her teeth graze along Raelle's collarbone. "I'll send you packing back to your dorm so you can be a good little student."

Raelle swallows up her laugh with a kiss and allows herself to be taken again.

*

That night, she dreams of Scylla.

In it, she's in Scylla's bed; Scylla's lying on top of her, head pressed to Raelle's chest. 

Raelle reaches out to stroke Scylla's hair; at the touch, Scylla starts. When she looks up at Raelle, her eyes are dark and unfocused, her mouth smeared with blood. She sits up, straddling Raelle. The moonlight pours through the windows, covering her in a silvery glow. Now Raelle can see that blood's not just on her mouth — it trails from her chin all the way down to her stomach in one great stain. 

"Oh, my darling," Scylla says, and blood drips from her teeth and tongue and it's red, red, _red_ , like a mouthful of cherries, like the time Raelle fell out of a tree at seven years old and knocked out her two front teeth. "Oh, käresta. You must come with me — you'll die — "

She stretches out her hand, as if to stroke Raelle's cheek.

Raelle awakes with a shout, bolting upright.

She's not in Scylla's apartment; she's in her dorm room, in her own bed, her heart thudding madly in her chest.

*

"You look terrible."

They're at breakfast. It's late in the morning, so the usually crowded dining hall is mostly empty now. Raelle's been poking at her lumpy, uninspired bowl of oatmeal for the last couple of minutes, trying to muster up the energy to actually eat it. It had smelled so delicious when she'd spooned it into her bowl, but now, sitting here, she's suddenly not hungry at all.

It's been like that for a lot of meals, now. She can't seem to stomach anything lately.

"Gee, thanks, Abigail," Raelle says, forcing herself to take a bite of oatmeal. It's tasteless. It settles like a stone in her stomach. 

"She's right, Rae." Tally's tone is gentle. "You don't look good at all. And you've been sleeping an awful lot lately. When you're in the room, that is," she adds after a second, in a quiet voice.

Raelle stares at her spoon. "I'm just making up for all the sleep I missed when I was having nightmares," she mutters.

It's a poor excuse and she knows it, but she doesn't care. She just wants to be left alone. She's never liked having people fuss over her; it makes her uncomfortably self-conscious. She shovels another spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth, hating the sticky way it slides down her throat. If she has to eat any more, she thinks she's going to be _actually_ sick.

Tally's hand settles on her wrist. "Why not go to the campus infirmary?" Tally suggests lightly. "It couldn't hurt."

When Raelle looks up, both her roommates are looking at her with concerned expressions on their faces. 

"Seriously, Collar." Abigail's mouth is turned down into a sharp frown. _She_ looks more annoyed than anxious. "If you're getting sick, I don't wanna catch whatever it is you might have."

Raelle scoffs. "I'm _fine_ ," she says sharply, then feels a little guilty when Tally's tentative smile drops, looking wounded. Raelle sighs, patting Tally's hand apologetically. "But, alright, I'll go. If _only_ to get you to stop worrying, Jesus."

She directs the last bit towards Abigail, who rolls her eyes and stands, readying to leave.

Slinking back in her chair, Raelle pushes her bowl aside. She glances at her watch; it's still hours until her next class. She really doesn't want to go to the infirmary. She wants to head down to Scylla's apartment and go curl up next to her girlfriend and spend the rest of the morning in bed, Mircalla bounding up to nestle in between them. 

Infirmary first, she tells herself. At least then she can feel better about having kept her promise. 

Not that it does much good. 

"There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with you. At least, not as far as I can tell." The nurse fills through the paperwork, scanning Raelle's chart a second time. "Fatigue and a loss of appetite could be a sign of something more serious — or it could simply be stress. We see that a lot with freshmen."

"I don't feel stressed. I just feel tired. Like I could sleep for days."

She hasn't mentioned her missed periods; she's too embarrassed. Shy. She knows that if she were to bring it up, the first thing they'd suspect is that she's pregnant. And while Scylla's _remarkably_ skilled in bed, Raelle doubts her girlfriend is _that_ talented.

Raelle's a terrible liar — she knows she'll just end up blurting out the truth about her sexuality if the nurse were to ask her point blank.

And that's a conversation she sincerely does _not_ want to have.

The nurse taps her pen against her chin thoughtfully. "An iron deficiency, perhaps? Or a sleep disorder. If your Circadian Rhythm has been thrown off balance, the two issues could be compounding each other." She stands, folding her arms. "Unfortunately we're only equipped to do routine examinations and a few basic tests. If you're worried, I would suggest going to see a private doctor. They could run more tests or even refer you to a specialist, if need be."

Raelle plasters on a smile, nodding. 

"Right," she says in a fake, syrupy voice. "Yeah, sure. I'll look into it."

There's no way she's going to do any of that. She doesn't have the money, and anyway, she's seen how high the bills can run for that sort of thing. Her father got sick five years ago from working at the paper mill in Charleston and had to be transferred over to the lumber yard. The salary cut plus medical bills were the reason they still couldn't afford much these days.

She thanks the nurse as she hops off the examination table, reaching for her coat.

 _Whatever it is_ , she thinks to herself as she pushes through the front door and out into the bracing, chill air, _it'll pass._

But even as she thinks it, she knows she doesn't quite believe it.

* * *

**KITTERY, ME | FEBRUARY, 1999**

_Strange, how love makes one careless._

_How one can be persuaded into believing that love is forever, that nothing or no one can ever rend it asunder. Past hurts are forgotten. Hesitation and reservations slip away. Nothing remains but the raw siren song of love — horrible and beautiful and terrifying and wonderful all at once. Too sweet and tempting to ignore._

_She forgets, of course, the danger._

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | WINTER OF 1989**

It happens like this, on a regular day just like any other:

Raelle's sitting on the floor of Scylla's apartment, playing with Mircalla and waiting for Scylla to return from class. She's batting a tiny mushroom-shaped plush toy around and amusing herself watching Mircalla's head flit back and forth, eyes sharp with concentration. When at last Mircalla's paw darts forward, she swipes so aggressively that the action sends the toy skidding across the hardwood.

Raelle watches it slide under the large, aged alder wood dresser. 

Mircalla stares at her with wide, expectant eyes. She flops down on her stomach, tail twitching, gazing forlornly in the direction of her lost toy. It's clear she expects Raelle to go fetch the little catnip-scented plush for her. Raelle sighs, scratching behind Mircalla's ear and earning herself a small chirp in response. 

"Honestly," Raelle grumbles affectionately as she shuffles across the floor on her knees and peers beneath the lip of the dresser. "I think your mom spoils you too much . . . "

As her fingers curl around the cat toy, she notices something else underneath the dresser. She tosses the toy over towards Mircalla — who grabs it eagerly and runs off with it in her mouth — before investigating further.

There's something underneath, partly wedged between the dresser and the wall. It's a piece of clothing, folded in on itself. It looks crumpled and dusty, like it's been there a while; it must have fallen some time ago and Scylla hadn't noticed. Which isn't particularly surprising, considering the sheer size of her wardrobe.

Raelle lies down flat on her stomach and stretches her arm out as far as it will go. After a few moments of blindly scraping it with the tips of her fingers, she manages to snag onto a patch of fabric, working it free. She sits up as she tugs it free, intending to toss it on top of Scylla's laundry pile. 

It's a white lantern sleeve blouse with an oversized collar and three pearl buttons. The kind of ridiculous thing that only Scylla could pull off. Raelle remembers commenting something very much like that the first time she saw Scylla wearing it, back in December.

The front of the shirt is decorated with uneven currant-colored splotches. 

The first thing Raelle thinks is: there's wine stains on it.

Scylla almost always drinks red wine. She keeps at least three bottles of it in her apartment at any time. Raelle can't stand wine, but outside of the occasional tumbler of whiskey, it's the only alcohol Scylla ever drinks. She laughs whenever she makes Raelle take a taste of a new vintage; Raelle always makes a face, complaining about the dry, earthy taste.

Another second passes and Raelle realizes —

It's not wine.

It's _blood_.

She knows, immediately, innately, that it is not Scylla's blood. It's not Scylla's blood because it _cannot_ be Scylla's blood; there's too much on it on the shirt for a small injury, and it would be impossible for Raelle not to have noticed something like that. She's seen Scylla naked on a practically daily basis since they met in October and in that time, Scylla's never had so much as a papercut. Raelle's never even noticed a single blemish or bruise. 

Which means —

Oh, _God._

Her mind reaches for vaguely for reason, trying to make sense of it all.

It can't be. It's impossible.

But she remembers, with sudden, horrible, vivid clarity, when she saw Scylla last wearing this shirt.

And she remembers what happened next.

*

She's still sitting numbly in Scylla's apartment later that evening when Scylla arrives.

"Sorry!" Scylla says, hustling through the door, kicking it closed and shucking off her scarf and coat. "I know we planned to go out this evening, but my lab ran late, and I — " 

She stops dead when she finally notices Raelle on the couch, the bloodied shirt clutched in her hands. She stiffens visibly; Raelle watches as a gamut of emotions flickers across Scylla's face.

"Found this today," Raelle says quietly, twisting the fabric in her hands to hide the way they tremble. "I remember this. You were wearing it a few days after our trip to Boston. Right before that man's body was found." Her voice hitches; the next part comes out in a little more than a whisper. "What did you do, Scylla?"

Scylla's face is as blank and cool as stone. 

Perhaps, Raelle thinks, she should be terrified. Perhaps it's a mistake to have stayed here, to be willing to play her hand so brazenly.

But she's just so _tired_. She feels weak and tired, her head throbbing with a dull but insistent headache. She's been sitting like this for hours now, trying desperately to reason away why Scylla would have something like this — what it could possibly mean. There's a million excuses she can think of — but none of them seem to fit. Her mind keeps replaying that afternoon in Scylla's apartment when she heard the news of Porter's death. How coldly Scylla reacted, how flippantly. The way she'd instantly steered the conversation in another direction. 

Even then, it had seemed so odd, that only days after he harassed them he was found dead. But Raelle had brushed aside those feelings, believing it could only be an unfortunate coincidence. It never even crossed her mind that Scylla could have been involved in some way.

"Raelle," Scylla says, and her voice is so eerily calm that it gives Raelle a chill. "I really didn't want you to find out like this."

"Find out what?" Somewhere in her chest, Raelle begins to feel the rising tide of panic. 

_Please let it be a mistake_ , she thinks. _Just let it be some kind of horrible misunderstanding. Whatever it is, I don't care. Just don't let this one thing be true._

But she knows. Deep down, she knows. 

Now, suddenly, her mind is running wild. She's thinking about Helen; Scylla was so defensive when Raelle asked her about the sweater. She'd been so annoyed with Raelle's seemingly innocuous questions. And, then, too, the night Libba was murdered — Scylla had kicked Raelle out, claiming she had an essay to finish. Her fawning the next day, which before had always seemed so loving, now felt sinister. As if Scylla had been trying to ease a guilty conscience. 

It can't be true. It can't. 

And yet, Raelle can't stop herself from asking; she needs to know the truth, no matter how terrible — 

"That man. You killed him, didn't you?" She forces her voice to remain flat. Controlled. "And . . . and there were others too, weren't there? Helen. And Libba." 

"Go on. Say what you mean."

Raelle swallows hard. The blood in her veins has turned to slush. "You — you're a murderer."

The tiniest hint of a smile flits across Scylla's mouth. 

The acidic taste of bile to flood Raelle's mouth; she chokes it back down. 

It doesn't make any sense. Raelle balls the shirt in her hands, her grip knuckle-white. Her headache is getting worse. Every instinct in her is telling her to run — to call the cops — to do _anything_ other than just stay here and watch as Scylla crosses the room and sits down on the edge of her bed. But Raelle can't move; she feels rooted to the spot.

"I am," Scylla admits tentatively, after a long, long moment. She sighs, looking mournful. "But that's not the whole story."

Raelle scoffs. "What could possibly be the whole story, Scylla?" she snarls, half in anger, half in disbelief. She's shaking now with rage and terror; she no longer cares to disguise it. "There is _nothing_ you could say that would justify this!"

Scylla smiles sardonically. "That might be true." She looks down at her lap where her hands rest neatly folded. "But," she continues with a demure tone, "at the very least I owe you an explanation."

Raelle nods. She doesn't care if what Scylla has to say is awful or if it hurts; she _needs_ to understand.

Because Scylla is . . . _Scylla_. She's small and lithe and outside of skating, Raelle's never seen her do anything that could be construed as physical. She's shy and reserved and kind and generous. She grows weepy when the news covers any story about animal abuse. She wakes Raelle up in the morning with the softest of kisses. She falls asleep on the couch with a book and Mircalla in her lap, reading glasses askew. 

She's nothing like the glimpse Raelle's seen today of a cold-blooded killer.

The way she always smiled at Raelle; how could she smile so sweetly and do horrible things?

"Well," Scylla starts lightly. "I should start from the beginning . . . "

* * *

**DALARNA COUNTY, SWEDEN | YEAR OF 1669**

_I was born in a small village in Sweden, in the seat of Dalarna County in the middle of the seventeenth century. My life was fairly ordinary — ordinary and plain. My childhood was unremarkable. My parents were humble and hardworking. It wasn't easy; I had to help care for my younger siblings and tend to the farm. But my parents were kind, and mostly I was not unhappy._

_I was twenty years old and due to be married that spring. It's a story as old as time — it was not what I wanted. I dreaded it. But like any girl then, there was little I could do to change the course of fate, and I was obliged to help lessen the burden on my aging parents. The village boy I was betrothed to had always been kind of me. He was a blacksmith's apprentice and would have offered me a decent life._

_They called it Det stora oväsendet. The Great Purge._

_Witch fears had always percolated throughout our area and throughout the rest of the country. But this was different: it took like a fever, grabbing tight to even the most level-headed of our village._

_My mother had learned a little bit of natural healing from her own mother, knowledge that was passed down throughout the ages. Our neighbors had come to her many times for remedies to aliments._

_They came for her, first. When my father tried to defend her, he was accused as well. I stood in the field and watched as they struggled against their bonds, fearful and shouting. There would be no justice for them, I knew; only the gallows, lying in wait. At that moment I could imagine it: their bodies hanging limp and lifeless; their eyes glassy; the creak of the rope as it strained under their weight._

_But it was not that thought that chilled me to the bone._

_No, it was the knowledge that I would soon be next._

_I did not think. I did not feel. When darkness fell, I packed myself a small satchel of modest provisions and stole away like a thief in the night. It was cold — not yet winter, but deep into the fall season. I hoped to chance upon someone who might provide shelter. Perhaps a kind silvicultrīx or farmers from a nearby town. But I was naive, and I found neither._

_For two days I traveled through the woods, rationing my food and stealing a few scant hours of sleep. The wind was harsh and my muscles ached. The soles of my feet grew blisters and then bled from walking on uneven ground and for so much longer than I was used to. Headaches came and went like the ebbing of a tide._

_I thought, I may die out here._

_I thought, at least I should die free and of my own choice, rather than in shackles at the hands of madmen._

_But the tapestry of fate is long and strange, and none of us knows what form it will take._

_On the third day, I met a strange woman. Beautiful — but in an odd, menacing sort of way, with raven hair and milky skin. She was dressed in fine clothes._

_'Käresta,' she said, and proffered her hand to me. Her voice was full of delicate lilting tones, her accent foreign. 'Come with me. I can help you.'_

_If I had known then what help she offered, would I have accepted? Or would I have fled, risking near certain death? In the end, she bestowed upon me a blessing, yes. But a curse as well._

_I do not know how she found me. At the time, I did not even think to ask, too exhausted and grateful. She draped her black velvet cape over my shoulders to shield me from the bitter wind and guided me through the trees until we reached a road. A black carriage with black lace curtains stood waiting. The coal colored horses stood snorting and tossing their heads impatiently. The driver was bundled in furs, his face obscured._

_To anyone else it might have seemed an ominous sight. I might have thought so too, if I had not already been charmed by the lady's grace and the promise of safety and warmth. I was thinking only of the devils I had left behind me. The once hospitable, friendly neighbors who had killed my parents and driven me to run like a rabbit from hounds._

_It was not a long ride._

_The woman lived in a duchy to the southwest. I watched enraptured from the window as we came upon her schloss, crimson flags with an unfamiliar crest billowing from the highest turrets. She bathed me and fed me and dressed me in clothes as lovely as her own. She was attended to by a handful of servants who kept her cup filled with wine — though despite the feast laid upon the table, she did not eat._

_Her name was Sarah, she told me._

_Last of an ancient bloodline._

_She had long been in want of a companion. A daughter to replace the one lost long ago. How convenient it was, then, that I was newly orphaned and in need of a family. Already I had begun to feel the pangs of loneliness. But that was not the only thing; it was greed, too, that drew me to make my choice. I had only just tasted a small crumb of freedom and luxury and I already wanted more. I did not want to go back to the life I came from, grinding out a meager existence._

_She promised it all; I willingly accepted._

_She bit into my neck and drank from me until I grew faint with death. It was her blood that revived me, sweet and viscous. The hunger was all consuming. Sarah tore me away from her wrist and with a smile sent me off to the kitchen where the scullery maid slept on a simple straw pallet. I did not need to be told what to do; driven by instinct, I was no longer human._

_And thus I became a monster._

_One borne of fear and grief —_

_But a monster nonetheless._

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | WINTER OF 1989**

When at last she's finished, the final sentence spoken in a hushed, melancholic tone, Scylla sits back, folding her hands in her lap. "So now I have told you everything," she says, after a long moment. "Or, at least, I have told you what was most important."

Raelle blinks. She feels as if she's waking from a deep sleep. A part of her thinks, _this cannot be real; this is all just a tale spun to make me look foolish_. But she knows better. She's seen the marks above her breast. She's seen Scylla, drenched in moonlight with a mouthful of blood. All of the nightmares, all the little things about Scylla that seemed slightly off-kilter. The things that didn't quite add up. The way she only talked about her past in vague, sweeping terms — when she did at all.

So many little things that Raelle brushed aside, unable — unwilling — to look closer.

There is no other explanation than this — the one truth that should not be true at all. 

Scylla is a vampire.

A _vampire_.

Again, Raelle thinks she should flee; she should bolt from the room and never look back. She leaps to her feet, feeling a surge of adrenaline.

But something other than fear stirs inside her then, too: an ugly mix of disgust and anger. 

"All this time," she starts, and the look on Scylla's face shifts and changes into surprise. "It was all a lie, wasn't it?" Her hands shake; she balls them into fists, blunted nails digging into her palms. The pain helps ground her. "You never cared about me. I . . . I was just _prey_ for you. You — " she can barely get the words out. "You _drank_ my _blood_!"

She can feel her voice growing louder and more shrill, but she can't stop herself. When Scylla stands and reaches for her, Raelle jerks away.

"Don't touch me." Raelle thinks she's going to be sick. "You _are_ a monster."

Scylla's expression is dark and wounded. "Raelle, it wasn't like that," she says softly. "Maybe at first, but then I got to know you. Everything changed; I wanted you for _you_. You were so brave and smart and — and _good_. And I hated hurting you. But I couldn't let you go."

Tears burn in Raelle's eyes. "Was anything real?" She chokes back a sob. "Would you have killed me too, eventually?"

"Raelle — "

"You said you loved me."

"I _do_." Scylla's tone is pleading now. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. Not once."

Raelle scoffs coldly. "And when I died you'd just, what? Move on to the next warm body?" 

Scylla sighs, shoulders slumping. "I cannot help my nature, who I am. And I can't apologize or atone for that, I know. But how often I wished things were different. That I was just a normal girl who you met and fell in love with. It's what I wanted more than anything."

She looks smaller now than Raelle's ever seen her. Small and frail and — and lonely. And for a brief moment, Raelle thinks back on the story Scylla told her, about a scared girl running from the only home she'd ever known. A girl who suffered and grieved and was all alone. A girl not so unlike her, terrified for her life simply because of misplaced distrust and hate. A girl who was forced to survive. 

Something akin to sadness washes over Raelle like a wave, threatening to break through the wall of anger she's put up between them. She hates how, even now, she's allowing herself to be swayed by Scylla, how tiny slivers of sympathy slither through the cracks in her armor and worm their way around her heart.

She swallows hard, trying to rid the lump in her throat. "Those are just words," she tells Scylla, tone icy and sharp. "You don't mean them. That's just all you have to offer — things meant to charm and sway me. I don't mean anything to you."

She feels tears coming now, hot and fast, and she hates herself for letting Scylla see how deeply she's been wounded.

"Kill me, if you want to," Raelle says dully, crushed. She feels numb. Broken. "I don't care. I never want to see you again." A pause, and then, through gritted teeth — because she _can_ , because she wants to hurt Scylla a little bit, too — she adds: "I could never love someone like you."

Scylla opens her mouth as if to speak; Raelle doesn't give her the chance.

She runs, at last.


	4. Chapter 4

**Kittery, ME | March, 1999**

Raelle stands at the stovetop, watching a small saucepan half-full of milk simmer to a boil.

Winter is beginning to ebb away, melting into spring, but it's still cold out here. Especially when she wakes; she flinches as her feet touch the cool hardwood, muttering a curse under her breath about the old house still not heating properly. But something hot to drink always takes the chill off. Today she's chosen hot chocolate; it feels appropriate, somehow. 

It was always _her_ favorite drink.

Raelle's not quite sure how much more she has left to write. She's reached the climax now; it's all downhill from there. That should make it easy — easy as fall. Like water going over a cliff or cresting over the top of the steep road, clutching the handlebars of your bicycle, heart soaring with delight. It's kissing a pretty girl and knowing you could never be happier in your whole life.

Only the ending left now.

*

_She should have known._

_Happiness never lasts — not for girls like_ her _._

 _Icarus-like, she strove too far; she wanted the impossible. And God, she had tried so hard to grasp it. For a moment she almost thought she had. But she didn't deserve it — had_ never _deserved it — and in the end all was lost to her. Her wings fell off under the heat of the glorious sun and she fell, plummeting down back to earth. Back to reality._

_Unlike Icarus, however, she won't die. She'll fall and fall forever, doomed to never forget._

_She's forgotten lots of things. The way her younger siblings laughed and smiled. The sounds of her parents' voices. All that remains is the_ feeling _of what once was; it's the worst kind of punishment. One day she might forget this girl, too. But she'll never forget how, just for a heartbeat, she felt real and alive. She was herself again, young and flush with the promise of life._

_Once, a long time ago, she tasted something too sweet to deny herself the pleasure of it._

__A blessing, yes. But a curse as well. __

_A modicum of happiness was allowed to her; once again, greedily, she refused to give it up._

_Love._

_The most monstrous thing she can imagine._

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | WINTER OF 1989**

Raelle doesn't explain to Tally and Abigail.

How can she? The truth is impossible. 

"We broke up," she tells them, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks puffy and raw. Her entire body hurts from crying. She wants to scream, to let herself be wracked with sobs. But it feels _wrong_ to do that; she can't allow herself to be that vulnerable. "Scylla isn't who I thought she was." 

It's not a lie, but it's not even close to reality — that she's been abruptly yanked from what was both a wonderful dream and a terrible, bloody nightmare all at once; the strange paradox of their relationship.  
Tally and Abigail don't press; it's a small comfort.

"If you need to talk, we're here," is all Abigail says.

They bring her meals from the dining hall, they help her with her schoolwork. Raelle's not used to being cared for like this. After her one and only previous rejection, back in high school, she'd had to hold everything inside and pretend that she was okay. But that isn't the case here — it's a million times different.

And yet — in some ways, it isn't.

Because as much as she wants to confess everything about Scylla, she knows she never will. Her friends would think her crazy. And even if she could prove such a fantastical tale . . . she's not entirely sure if she wants to. Scylla is a monster — a _murderer_ — but deep down Raelle knows that it isn't entirely her fault. She can't help what she is — and, if Raelle's truly being honest with herself, she's not sure she wouldn't have accepted the same offer as Scylla, once upon a time.

She hates that even now, even with all the lies and horror, she can still somehow manage to find a shred of sympathy for Scylla within herself.

She can't help but go through the months she spent with Scylla — she finds herself picking apart every moment, every little interaction. It all felt so real and true at the time, but now she can't help but wonder just how much of it was a veneer of falsehood.

Sometimes, she's unable to think of anything else but Scylla's face the last time they saw each other.

When she ran away so abruptly, adrenaline coursing through her veins. When, hands clenched into shaking fists at her sides, she used the only weapon she could, her words sharp as knives:

_I could never love someone like you._

Outside, she'd thrown up on the sidewalk, retching, tears streaming down her face. Wiping her mouth on the back of her trembling hand, she turned to see if perhaps Scylla had indeed followed her, teeth bared monstrously. But all that greeted her was the darkness. Even the big windows of Scylla's overlooking the street were dark, the curtains drawn shut.

How horrible, that even in that moment, a tiny, traitorous part of her wanted to see Scylla gazing down on her with a forlorn look.

Getting out of bed feels like an insurmountable task. When she does manage to crawl to the shower, she lingers for what feels like hours, the steam and hot water dulling her mind. For at least a little while, she can feel detached from the rest of the world. She feels untethered; she lies in bed and sees herself at a distance, weak and pale, mourning something that may have never even existed in the first place.

She doesn't dream at all now. 

*

A few weeks pass.

Raelle's appetite has returned, and now that she's had a chance to rest up, she's feeling a little more like her old self. The lethargy and weakness are gone, and color's begun to return to her cheeks. Even Abigail and Tally have remarked upon her looking better. It's unsettling, knowing all of her ailments were caused by Scylla. She can't help but wonder about all of the other victims throughout Scylla's lifetime. All the men and women whose lives faded before their very eyes. 

Had any of them known? Had they guessed it, at the end?

She's not quite sure what compels her to do it: visiting Scylla's apartment.

Perhaps it's a morbid curiosity. Or a complete and utter lack of self-preservation. A part of her — ugly, bitter, and scared — has been expecting all these days for Scylla to catch her and make good on her original plans. The click of heels on pavement will prompt a nervous glance over her shoulder; the slight rustle of a curtain gives her pause. She knows that Scylla could kill her with ease, if she chose to do so.

And perhaps it's _that_ which sends her to Scylla's door after a fortnight: the knowledge that Scylla could have hurt her — really and truly — but never did.

Perhaps, in some twisted way, Scylla really _did_ care. And not just about Raelle, but everything and everyone around Raelle. She treated her friends with kindness and generosity. She spent time with Edwin, helping him around the house, listening to stories that Raelle'd heard a thousand times before with genuine interest. She was fascinated by Raelle's life, by the world she inhabited. She listened when Raelle talked about her mother, offering comfort that actually felt soothing. She laughed when Raelle played with Mircalla, the two of them sprawled out on the floor. She was gentle and patient.

It was the clever disguise, a mask to hide the monster lurking beneath.

But, maybe not _all_ of it had been a lie. Maybe there were some tiny slivers of truth embedded in all the deception.

_I love you. No matter what._

There was still Libba's death though — and poor Helen. It didn't matter that Scylla did not act out of malice but simply nature — they were still real and whole people. Girls who had lives and futures and people who loved them. Families who missed them. Raelle knew all too well the gaping hole that was left behind when someone you loved was suddenly ripped from your life forever.

Even killing that man in Boston — even if, perhaps, in some twisted way Scylla thought she was being _kind_ to Raelle — was inexcusable. 

Raelle can't forgive her. 

But she knocks on Scylla's door anyway, despite herself, holding her breath, her heart racing.

There's no answer.

Raelle knocks again. She presses her ear up against the door and listens. It's silent.

She still has the key Scylla gave her months ago.

She doesn't allow herself to think; she slides the key into the lock, listens to the tumbler click into place. She nudges the door open slightly with her foot, the ancient hinges creaking in protest. It's silent, still; she pushes the door open a little further and dares a look inside.

Right away she can tell Scylla's not here — that she might not have been here for at least a week, if not longer. There's white sheets draped over all the furniture. A slight amount of dust has settled on the window sills; Scylla was always so meticulous about keeping her apartment spotless. The fridge, though always sparse, is now completely empty. It's cold in the apartment, too; Raelle shivers and pulls her coat a little tighter around herself. 

But there's one thing that remains unchanged: Mircalla must still be around. There's fresh water and a bit of food set out for her to drink and her litter box looks newly changed. Her plush little bed, the one Raelle bought back during Christmas, is still wedged next to the couch. Someone must still be around to care for her — Byron, Raelle assumes.

She tugs back the protective sheet and sinks down onto the couch. 

It feels strange. There's an emptiness to the silence that feels . . . almost _lonely_.

She wishes that Mircalla were here right now, that she could cradle her in her arms and scratch behind her ears and listen to her soft purrs. She could pretend for a minute that nothing has changed. Tears spring to her eyes at the thought and she puts her face in her hands, hating herself for crying, for allowing herself to become nostalgic.

 _Those happy times were never real_ , she tells herself. _They were all just the product of a lie._

But it doesn't make her feel any better.

The ache in her is too great; she only wants what never was.

*

It's habit-forming — visiting Scylla's empty apartment.

Perhaps Raelle really _is_ a fool; she can't let go. Not entirely. Everything happened so fast; it still doesn't feel veridical. One moment everything was perfect — how quickly it all fell to ruins around her when at last the blindfold was removed from her eyes. All that remains is this: an empty apartment and memories that feel more dream-like with every passing day.

She doesn't know where Scylla's gone.

A week after finding Scylla's apartment temporarily abandoned, Raelle had gone to the department chair overseeing Scylla's major, pretending to be a concerned friend. Izadora L'Amara, a stern-faced woman with dark hair and eyes, told her in brief terms that Scylla had taken a leave of absence from the school. She'd cited family issues as a reason; no one knew the details any further than that.

There was no cause to suspend her enrollment, Izadora said. Not when she'd performed exceptionally in all of her classes and her aunt had bequeathed a rather large endowment to the school as well. 

It left Raelle with no recourse but to wait.

And in waiting, she found herself missing Scylla, despite everything. Despite all logic.

There was a small comfort in being able to go to her apartment, to run her fingers along the furniture and breathe in — what she imagined to be — the faint scent of Scylla's perfume. She could lie on the couch, curled up beneath Scylla's Amish quilt, petting a placid, patient Mircalla until she dozed off to sleep.

On one such day — a blustery afternoon in late February — she's startled awake by an orotund voice.

"My, my. What do we have here?"

Raelle darts up, throwing aside the blanket and sending Mircalla scampering away.

Standing in the foyer is a tall woman with long raven hair styled with a gentle wave. Her long, broad-shouldered charcoal overcoat hangs half-open, revealing a rich magenta pantsuit paired with a chunky white belt and matching dress shirt. Its high collar is buttoned all the way up, giving her a prim, matronly look. Her white stiletto heels are immaculate, despite the grime from the city and the salted winter sidewalks.

There's a menacing air to her that puts Raelle immediately on edge. Her mouth is crooked up into a tiny smile, eyes narrowed with interest. 

"You must be Raelle." She extends her hand. "I'm Sarah. Sarah Alder."

"Scylla's . . . " Raelle's not sure what to call her exactly. "Aunt."

"Mother," Sarah corrects. Her smile widens, but there's no warmth to it. "Well," she continues fluidly. "Of a sort."

Raelle frowns. "You're the woman she met all those years ago in the forest. The noble lady who turned her into a monster." Her words come out coarse and heated. She isn't stupid; she knows the danger Sarah poses. But she's flooded with a stubborn desire to show this woman that she's not afraid. And she's not just some naïve schoolgirl. 

Sarah's laugh is cool. She brushes Raelle's scorn off with a dismissive waggle of her fingers. "She told you everything, hm?"

"She told me enough."

"Oh, _did_ she?" Sarah claps her gloved hands with delight. Her eyes glint with barely-concealed malice. "Now, tell me — how _exactly_ did you find out?"

She says it with a smug, airy tone that implies she knows _precisely_ what happened and simply wants to watch Raelle fume, caught flat-footed and embarrassed. She brushes her hair off to one side, eyes sweeping across Scylla's apartment. Her gaze settles on the couch where Mircalla now lies on the crumpled heap of Scylla's quilt, watching the exchange with apparent interest, her eyes narrowed and ears forward. 

"Such a charming tableau," Sarah remarks, sounding amused. "Have you been coming here with the hopes of seeing her again? I'm afraid you're going to be waiting for a long time." She pauses to reach into her purse, extracting a shiny silver cigarette case. Raelle watches as Sarah pops it open; the sharp shadows cast by the flame of her lighter only serve to make her look more ghoulish and menacing.

"She's run off to Europe." Sarah takes a short drag of her cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of bluish smoke. "I must say, this is a first — she's never been prone to dramatics." Another pause as she looks Raelle up and down, appraising her. "She must have taken _quite_ a liking to you, my dear."

"She told me she loved me."

Raelle doesn't know why she blurts it out — perhaps it's because this whole interaction feels so patently _mundane_ , even in the face of all evidence to the contrary.

"Did she?" Sarah's laughter sounds like the dull grind of ice. "Dearest, there's no such thing for creatures like us. Affection may take us, perhaps, for a while. But love? You were only a distraction for her. A little way to pass the time."

It shouldn't hurt. 

Raelle's told herself these exact same things a hundred times by now. And she knows, too, that she was always meant to be prey, that Scylla was willing to lie to her for as long as it took. Scylla would have killed her, eventually — her _love_ , whatever it was, left her with no capacity for reason or humanity. She was nothing to Scylla — not really. Not in any way it mattered.

But hearing it now, from Sarah's vermilion-red painted lips, her mouth twisted into a cruel smile, Raelle feels the splinters of her heart fracturing even further. She sniffs, fighting back tears and curling her hands into fists. She doesn't want to give Sarah the satisfaction of knowing she's struck a nerve — but it's evident from the way Sarah's eyebrows crook up that she can see right through Raelle, right down into the very pit of her soul.

"Oh," Sarah says superciliously. "Did you honestly believe her to be sincere? My child, you are not the first she's caught in her thrall — and I daresay you won't be the last."

In two long strides she's across the room, towering over Raelle. She reaches out a hand; Raelle can smell cigarette smoke and her mind, bizarrely, flashes back to the night of the frat party. The way Scylla looked as they danced together in the smoky low-light, how effortlessly cool she looked. Her smile and laughter; the invisible cord between them growing increasingly taunt.

She doesn't flinch as Sarah's gloved fingers glide across her cheek. She doesn't move at all; she is a statue. She is stone. Cold and unyielding.

Sarah clicks her tongue softly. For a second, her sea-foam eyes adopt a gentle expression. "Be thankful that she took some small pity on you," she tells Raelle. "There are much worse fates than heartbreak."

And then she's turning, dropping her cigarette to the floor unceremoniously and grinding it out with the pointed toe of her shoe. "Some advice, édesem. Forget that you ever met her. Put it all out of your mind and go about your life."

"How could I ever forget?" Raelle hates how her voice comes out strained and desperate. 

Sarah pauses, leaning against the doorway. "You would be surprised how easily even the most awful, fervent memories are lost to time."

She makes a vague gesture with her hand that Raelle interprets as her growing bored with the conversation. "Run along now, lekker ding." When she smiles this time, it's with too much teeth. "Remember well what I told you. You will be grateful, one day."

Her words linger long after she's gone, the echoing click of her heels in the hallway fading away in the distance.

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | SPRING OF 1989**

Raelle's lying in bed, half asleep while trying to get through her assigned reading when she hears a knock at the door.

"Hey."

It's a girl from the floor below them — a tall girl with red-gold hair and a runner's build who also happens to be in one of Raelle's pre-med classes this semester. They've spoken perhaps a half dozen sentences to each other in the past month, and that was mostly because they happened to bump into each other at one of the parties thrown by Abigail's new sorority. Raelle's terrible with names; she spent the whole brief exchange mostly nodding awkwardly.

And yet, despite that, later in the evening as Raelle was getting ready to leave, the girl had slipped her phone number — scribbled hastily on the back of a pizza delivery slip — into Raelle's hand with a wink.

It was nice, being flirted with. Raelle hadn't experienced that since —

Well.

She hasn't called the number, either; she stands in the doorway now, rubbing the back of her neck, the tips of her ears burning with embarrassment. "Oh, uh. Hi."

"Sorry," the girl says. "I just wanted you to know — there's some guy, like, standing outside the front entrance? Says he knows you, but he doesn't know what room you're in?" Her voice has a California Valley Girl lilt that is equal parts charming and annoying. "Anyway, he asked me if I could like, come get you. I guess it's important or whatever."

Raelle only knows _one_ boy — or, at least, she only knows one who would stop by for a visit.

She stuffs her feet into her sneakers and grabs her keys, following the girl down the hall.

"So, is he like your boyfriend or something?"

Raelle makes a face as they start down the stairs. "No. Absolutely not." 

"Oh." The girl sounds clearly pleased. "Yeah, cool. Alright."

Now Raelle really _does_ feel bad.

Maybe she should just blurt out that she's flattered but uninterested. Or maybe she's a bigger idiot than she thinks she is; she has no idea the exact number of girls at Danvers State who _also_ happen to like girls, but she's quite certain that number is likely _small_. Is she really going to keep pining after Scylla forever? Scylla's left her — and that's only the most recent entry on the list of why Raelle should just try to move on. It makes no sense to sit around moping over Scylla.

And, yet — she can't help it. The thought of dating someone new feels foreign and abstract. Like something she could imagine for herself but doesn't have the wherewithal to actually make a reality. 

If she's being completely honest with herself, maybe it's fear, too, that's holding her back. A quiet terror of opening up and being hurt and having her heart broken all over again. She doesn't think she could stand that. Not right now. Perhaps not ever. It would be so much easier to just never care for anyone else ever again.

Thankfully, she's spared from any further commiserating over the sad state of her love life — as she steps through the front door, she spots Byron. He's sitting on a low stone wall that borders a row of small, squat shrubs that look desperately in need of a good trim.

When he sees Raelle, he jumps to his feet, waving with so much enthusiasm that Raelle can't help but smile.

"Hey you," he says, after Raelle permits him to wrap her up in a hug. He pats her head affectionately. "Been a while."

*

Byron's got the Bentley parked inconspicuously around the corner in the shade of tall oaks on a more residential street. Raelle raises an eyebrow when he gestures for her to get inside.

"Don't worry, I'm not taking you anywhere," Byron says with an exaggerated eye roll. "I assure you, if I had ill intentions, I would be employing _much_ more subterfuge than asking the cute girl with an obvious crush on you to go fetch you."

Now it's Raelle's turn to roll her eyes. 

Byron sighs, opening the door and leaning on the frame. "Come on, get in. This isn't a conversation we can have over coffee in the campus center."

Raelle relents, climbing into the front seat. 

"Now," Byron says, once he's settled in. "First thing's first — I know what happened with you and Scylla. And no," he continues quickly, before Raelle can speak. "She didn't send me. I'm here absolutely of my own volition."

"Why?" Raelle frowns. "Why do you care? It's over now."

Byron sighs, running his finger over the leather stitching on the steering wheel. "I know. It's just — I've known Scylla forever, okay? When she told you we're old friends, she _meant_ it; I can't imagine anyone has been friends longer than us."

The implication settles over Raelle like a fine blanket of snow. "Oh," she says, very, very slowly. "You're — "

"A vampire, yes."

He says it so nonchalantly, as if he were making a comment about the weather.

It's beginning to dawn on Raelle that she hadn't even thought of the wider implications of what Scylla was. She knew about Sarah, yes, but she had just assumed that was the entire scope of Scylla's world. And yet, somehow the thought of _Byron_ being a vampire is strangely comforting. He's so outgoing and kind, not at all like Sarah. At last, maybe, Raelle has someone she can _actually_ speak plainly to about Scylla. Someone who knows her. Someone she _likes_.

But, more importantly — he's someone with no ulterior motives.

"Tell me, then," Raelle says. "About her."

* * *

**DALARNA COUNTY, SWEDEN | YEARS 1667 — 1681**

_He's twenty and a driver for the Countess Alder._

_He knows no other life than living in her shadow, having grown up on her estates in Dalarna County. His parents had been servants at the schloss there, though they'd died some years back during a particularly harsh winter that had swept an outbreak of the bilious fever throughout the area. It was not long after that his mistress had appointed him to be her new driver and personal attendant._

_The mistress likes to keep particular servants close, he's noticed. Those chosen are often asked to perform multiple duties. He doesn't mind, though; he prefers to keep busy. Besides that, the work is much easier, and he's dressed in finer clothes. It's a welcome reprieve from cleaning out the stables or spending hours hauling supplies to and from town._

_His mistress, though not unkind, is strange. Her accent has a foreign twinge to it that he can't place. There's an air of cool detachment about her that feels different from the sort of regal posturing one would expect from nobility. As he observes her with her peers, he thinks that it is as if she holds herself above them, despite her demure, deferential demeanor. He's reminded, sometimes, of a Skogsrå; fancifully, he imagines her luring men away into her chambers only to reveal her true nature and drain them to the point of exhaustion._

_"Byron," she calls, thumping the jeweled head of her ornamental walking stick against the side of the carriage. A signal for him to stop._

_He reigns in the horses; they go still, snorting and tossing their heads impatiently. Steam rises from their nostrils; it's a bone-cold afternoon and they're returning from an elegant ball from the previous evening. One where he watched his mistress drink and flirt, sweet-talking her neighbors into business negotiations. It always intrigues him how easily men fall for her charms; he's never once felt stirred by the sight of her._

_Perhaps, he tells himself, it's because she's never aimed her affections at _him_ specifically._

_Before he can hop down from his perch, his mistress is already disembarking from the carriage, draping her thick, velvet cape around her shoulders._

_"Wait here a moment," she instructs._

_He watches as she steps off the road, picking her way through the trees — until at last she vanishes into the forest._

_It could be only minutes later, but it feels like longer than that when at last his ears prick up at the sound of frost-hardened leaves crunching under foot. Peering out from under his fur-lined cap, he notices his mistress is now in the company of a young girl. She looks to be about his age, looking bedraggled and exhausted, her skirts stained with mud and face ruddy from the cold._

_As the two approach the carriage, he fixes his face forward, expression blank. He says nothing as his mistress ushers the girl inside and raps for him to continue driving._

_His mind burns with questions he doesn't dare ask._

_He learns soon enough, though; the truth parceled out to him in little scraps until at least he pieces it all together._

_The girl's name is Scylla. It's an odd name. Her arrival is just as odd; the morning after, there come whispers of a scullery maid having died. Her body had been found on the edge of the forest, torn apart by a wild animal. That afternoon, when the mistress takes her tea in her bedroom, she dismisses the news with a slight wave of her hand. What is one simple girl to her, a wealthy noble woman of ancient lineage?_

_But she treats Scylla like her daughter — the one Byron vaguely recalls from his childhood; she was lost to consumption before she was even ten years of age. In the right light, Scylla _could_ be her, all grown up as a lady. Her hair isn't quite as dark and her eyes are a little too blue, but the resemblance is remarkably striking. The mistress has fine dresses tailored for Scylla. She keeps her clean and polished and by her side at all times. _

_At first, Scylla is quiet and withdrawn. Shy._

_The winter is long, though, and there's so many hours in a day with not much to do while his — _their_ — mistress is away without them._

_"Recuperating," she calls it, in the hot springs of Grindavík, an entire country away._

_It's the only time she ever travels alone. When she returns, she always looks beautifully revived, her skin radiant, eyes vibrant with life._

_So Byron, bored and a little lonely, makes it his mission to coax Scylla out of her shell. She's reticent, at first, only agreeing to a game of cards together or a brisk walk along the edge of the grounds. But slowly things change; she grows playful and sly. She listens with rapt attention as he reads Stjernhjelm to her, eager to improve her own literacy. Sometimes they fall asleep together, Scylla's head on his shoulder, as they recline on a sofa in front of a steady fire._

__Like a sister_ , he muses, and the thought pleases him. He's never had any siblings, save for a brother who died only a few weeks after birth. _

_Scylla seems to share his familial sentiment. She does not speak of her own family, though he assumes she must have had one, once. Parents, at least. Sometimes he wants to press, but something within him cautions restraint. He doesn't really know her, this strange girl — and he certainly cannot imagine his mistress' intentions with taking her in. He doesn't even know how the Countess found her._

_It is Scylla, in the end, who is responsible for what he becomes._

_She does not perform the act herself, but rather puts the suggestion into their mistress' ear._

_The Countess comes to him one night. He thinks she may have come to seduce or kill him — he isn't sure which idea terrifies him more. But she does no such thing. Instead, she offers him eternity. She offers him the world, the chance to have anything he might desire, no matter how forbidden._

_Perhaps, in another time or place, he might not have accepted._

_But, as he knew well, his mistress could be woefully persuasive._

_Scylla greets him at the door, his mouth coppery with blood and a perverse _hunger_ thrumming through him._

_"Don't be afraid," she tells him kindly, and takes his hand. "We will go hunting together, you and I."_

_Things change, after that. The dynamic between the three of them shifts, even if their roles do not. His mistress becomes _Sarah_ , even if he is never allowed to refer to her as such in public or around servants. Scylla becomes more than his sister — she is his confidant now, as he is for her._

_In time, they find they find themselves more complimentary than they could have ever imagined._

_They must live in this world as it is, but they have unshackled themselves from human conventions._

_She is not the shy girl Byron first met, that dirty and disheveled girl from the forest. She has learned well from Sarah how to beguile others, how to charm and flatter. She exercises only as much discretion as is required to not draw attention, delighting in being able to seduce men and women alike into her bed, where she sups upon them with vigor._

_Byron is not quite as adept as her; he's much more prone to affection for his victims. He hates having to sate his hunger entirely; it feels like a waste to have a beautiful boy in his arms one evening and then a corpse in the morning._

_Scylla doesn't understand his feelings._

_"You cannot love them," she says, and he hears Sarah's voice in her words. "It'll drive you mad. Think, instead, of how you were able to enjoy them at the height of their glamor. That you spared them a life of misery by granting them a sweet death."_

_There is such a strong conviction to her words; he thinks that she really must believe them._

_In time, he realizes with horror that he does too._

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | SPRING OF 1989**

"I know it's hard to believe," Byron says gently. "But the Scylla you know is _so_ very different from the one I've been around for centuries. I've never seen her with so much as a crush on someone. You, however — you are very different. I knew it from the start, when I saw her with you. She was already smitten. It took her a long time to admit it, though." He grins. "I teased her quite a bit. Definitely guilty of that."

Raelle picks at a tear in her jeans by her knee. "I want to believe you," she says. "I _do_. But — "

"Listen." Byron shifts, reaching across the seat to settle his hand on top of Raelle's. "I don't expect you to understand; it took me a long time as well. Our nature is . . . well, I think 'monstrous', as Scylla likes to say, really does aptly describe it. But we've had many years to come to terms with it. And for you to find out like you did . . . " he trails off, settling back in his seat. "I get it."

They lapse into silence.

Raelle watches a group of students walk by the car, laughing and joking. Across the street, a middle-aged lady is working on the flowers in her front yard, wrist deep in dirt. She sits back after a moment, fanning herself with her floppy-brimmed hat and wiping at her brow. Somewhere in the distance, Raelle hears the whine of a police siren.

Everything around her is all so ordinary, so simple and mundane. Raelle still doesn't know how the world can go on existing as it always did, when her entire existence has been so upended.

The thing is — Raelle really _does_ believe him. For all her hesitation, the truth is that she's been waiting all this time to grasp at any possibility that Scylla really did love her. Or maybe, even, that she still does. That their time together wasn't just one giant falsehood. 

"What would she have done?" Raelle asks him. "Would she have killed me too?"

"Darling," Byron sighs, with a bemused, but kind smile. "She _loves_ you. She wanted to turn you." He tilts his head, expression growing thoughtful. "At the same time, she couldn't bear to take from you the very thing that made you _you_ : your humanity. Your _light_. In her eyes, you shone — brighter than any of those stars she's so enamored with."

For the second time that day, a silence falls over them.

"Well." Byron shrugs, finally. "I guess that's it, then."

He opens his door and Raelle climbs out as well.

They walk back to her dorm together. 

"Just — one more thing," Byron says, as the brick building comes into view. "You don't have to forgive Scylla, you know. I didn't come here to convince you of that. Actually, Scylla doesn't even know I'm here; she'd probably kill me if she found out." He laughs, then sobers. "If you never want to see her again, that's completely valid, too. I guess . . . I just wanted you to know that she's not all bad. The things about her you loved — those are real."

Raelle nods.

She hesitates for a second, then pulls him into a hug.

"Thank you," she mumbles into his shirt, eyes stinging with tears.

She waves goodbye with a smile as he heads off. 

And, for the first time in a long time, she feels _better_.

*

Edwin is sick again.

He tells Raelle this, in a measured, sober voice when she calls him on a Sunday evening from the common room payphone.

Raelle calling is a routine they've fallen into lately, one that she relishes. As great as Tally and Abigail have been since everything that happened with Scylla — and, really, more patient than Raelle deserves — she still feels unbearably lonely. She's tried to throw herself into her schoolwork, has even allowed herself to be dragged off to countless parties, but it hasn't helped.

Scylla, for whatever her faults, had always been the one person Raelle felt the most comfortable around. They could sit in silence for hours, content just to be near each other. When they talked, the conversation flowed as naturally as if they'd known each other forever. There'd been an instant connection between them from the moment they first met. Everything had always been so easy with her. 

And it hadn't been _all_ a lie — no matter what Sarah said, Raelle knows that Scylla couldn't have faked all those moments. Some of them had to be real and true. She knows it innately. She remembers the way Scylla's whole face lit up when Raelle first said the word _girlfriend _. The way Scylla kissed her, breathless and giddy.__

__Raelle tries not to think about it too much — reliving all their little moments makes her feel terrible all over again._ _

__Her father delivers the news to her soberly._ _

__"There's something I gotta tell you, kiddo," he starts, halfway into the call, and the tiny wobble in his voice makes Raelle's stomach drop._ _

__Pulmonary fibrosis._ _

__He'd been treated for lung scarring long before Raelle ever went away to college; it was why the paper mill had moved him over to the lumber yard in the first place — he just wasn't able to do the same kind of work any more. Rest and a lighter schedule had helped, a little, but the damage was done._ _

__And now the issue has progressed further._ _

__There's things they can do, Edwin explains, as she stands there, numbly clutching the phone to her ear. The doctors have given him treatment options. He's not down and out for the count just yet. The last bit is said with a laugh, and Raelle can tell he's putting on a show of upbeat positivity for her benefit. She _can't_ cry. Not yet. She chokes down the lump in her throat, forcing herself to stay calm. _ _

__"Do you need me to come down there, Dad?" she asks. "Just tell me. I'll be there in a day."_ _

__"Oh, sweetheart." She can picture his sad smile. Imagines him ruffling her hair like when she was a little kid. "You finish up the school year and then you can come down and visit, okay? It's just early stages now. I'll be okay."_ _

__Raelle can't help but feel guilty. She's miles and miles away. Her dad is all alone. She's spent so much time being self-absorbed in her own stupid feelings; it never occurred to worry about anything else. She'd always known there was a possibility that her dad's condition could take a turn for the worse — it's just that Raelle never really believed that it actually would _happen_. It was only ever a hypothetical to her._ _

__Not anymore, though._ _

__"Hey," Edwin says later, as they're exchanging goodbyes. "How's that girl of yours? Scylla. You haven't mentioned her in a while."_ _

__Raelle can't bring herself to be truthful. "She's good, dad." The lie tastes bitter on her tongue. "Just busy. I'll tell her you said hello."_ _

__She's such a coward._ _

____

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | SUMMER OF OF 1989**

Summer arrives, and with it, the end of school.

Raelle rounds out her freshman year with a strong performance. She aces her finals, proudly showing off her grades to Abigail, who rolls her eyes but congratulates her anyway. She's done well enough to retain her scholarship; the news of this comes as a welcome relief. She'd been so worried about how she'd done during the winter semester, fretting that she'd let her marks slip too much.

A tiny part of her wishes Scylla was around to see her; Raelle knows she would be so pleased. She was always excited whenever Raelle did well on an exam or paper — mostly because she'd always stayed up late into the evening with Raelle, helping her study or revising what she'd typed out. 

Strange, how in so many ways their relationship had been rather commonplace; she's realizing it more and more, with time. 

She moves out of the dorm and into an apartment with Tally and Abigail.

"It'll be fun!" Tally chirped, when she'd first brought up the idea. "We're friends. We already know we get along. Just think: we can get jobs. Have boys — or girls — " she adds quickly, with a wink in Raelle's direction " — over any time we want. We can be, like, _adults_."

Raelle finds employment at a drugstore downtown. Stocking shelves isn't exactly the most exciting work, but the money is enough for her to pay her share of the rent and also set a little aside to spend on herself. Besides that, working in an air conditioned building beats working out in the sweltering heat any day. She's had enough of that to last her her entire life.

She spends her weeks dutifully clocking in for thirty hours every week and sleeping in on the weekends, occasionally allowing Tally and Abigail to drag her out for a night on the town.

She doesn't let herself think about Scylla at all.

But on a hazy August evening, walking through South Boston harbor —

Abigail's mother has come up for a visit; Abigail's cousin lives in a lofty mansion over in Marblehead, and, as Mrs. Bellweather explained, it only made sense to see the two of them on the same trip. She invited Raelle and Tally to come along with them to dinner. Tally had shouted an excited thanks and dashed off to get ready. Raelle was more reluctant, however. She'd never grown entirely used to Scylla's wealth, though Scylla never exuded the same straight-laced blue-blood image that Petra Bellweather projects. 

Raelle doesn't have anything in common with people like the Bellweathers — but, what's more, her mom's presence sets Abigail on edge. She fusses over Raelle, muttering under her breath as she smoothes down invisible wrinkles in Raelle's shirt, instructing her to _do something_ with her hair. 

The whole affair exhausted Raelle before they even arrived at the restaurant, an upscale seafood place overlooking the water. 

Now, after dinner, Raelle lags behind the group, hands in her pockets. Throughout dinner, she couldn't help but be reminded of Scylla and their trip to Boston last December. Better times. They'd been so happy. Walking along the Charles River arm-in-arm — Raelle could have never predicted everything that was to come. 

She lifts her head up to wave at Abigail, who's motioning for her to catch up. 

And that's when Raelle sees her:

A petite brunette, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, a purse slung over her shoulder. She's on the other side of the street, lingering at one of the stalls lining the side of Quincy Market. 

Even from a distance, Raelle recognizes —

"Scylla!"

The girl turns.

And then Raelle can see that it really _is_ her — Scylla; she's staring at Raelle with a strange, unreadable expression. 

"Scylla!" Raelle calls again, pushing past a group of college students on the sidewalk, stumbling, then running to catch up as Scylla begins to round a corner. "Wait, please — "

But on the other side of the street, there's no one there.

Scylla's gone, like an apparition in the night.

*

Raelle doesn't hesitate:

As soon as they're back in Danvers, she heads straight for Scylla's apartment.

She doesn't bother to knock.

Scylla's inside. There's cardboard moving boxes scattered around the front room; some are taped up and labeled while others sit half-full. All the books have been taken down off the shelves and neatly lined up against a wall, waiting to be packed up. Scylla stands between the couch and her bed, sorting through a pile of clothes.

She looks up when Raelle steps inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a quiet _click_.

"Oh, right." Scylla says dryly, looking moderately displeased. She tosses a shirt into the box on her bed. "You have a key." She reaches for a pair of jeans, folding them with deliberate slowness. "What are you doing here, Raelle?"

"I saw you in Boston," Raelle says bluntly. "Why did you run?"

Scylla doesn't look at her. "I would think the answer would be obvious."

Raelle's heart sinks, feeling a little stung. She supposes that she deserves Scylla's ire, at least a little bit. "I know that our last conversation was . . . " Raelle trails off awkwardly, shoving her hands in her pockets and rocking back on her heels. "I mean . . . "

Scylla's smile is cool. "It's alright; you can say it. You were horrified by me." She sets the jeans aside and perches on the arm of the couch, regarding Raelle impassively, her hands folded in front of her. "Truthfully, I don't blame you for it. I did terrible, unspeakable things — even to you."

In the pause that follows, Raelle watches her worry her bottom lip with her teeth, as if uncertain how to proceed.

"I should tell you now: our meeting wasn't an accident." There's the tiniest strain in her voice, as if she's already anticipating for Raelle to berate her further. Or worse. "I wanted to meet you. I saw you one day, on the quad during your freshman orientation and I . . . I _coveted_ you. So I made myself available to you." She spreads her hands out in front of her, as if gesturing to the entire room. "It was all a pretense."

Raelle wasn't expecting this. "Scylla — "

"No," Scylla says quickly, cutting her off. "You should know. I _need_ you to know. I lied about a lot of things. But I didn't lie about falling in love with you. _That_ was real. Maybe the only _real_ thing about me. And then, when I realized it, I was scared. Because I didn't want to lose that little piece of myself — that little bit of humanity I thought had been lost forever. I didn't want to lose _you_." She sighs forlornly, hanging her head. "That was my mistake; I was selfish. The more ardently I cared for you, the more selfish I became. But that isn't what love should be about."

She stands, stepping forward to halve the distance between them. "I'm sorry, Raelle," she says, in a soft, penitent tone. "That's why I'm leaving. You deserve to be happy and have a long, normal life. I can't give that to you. And me staying here won't do either of us any good."

"But," Raelle blurts out. "What about your classes?"

For the first time in a long time, the corners of Scylla's mouth crook up into a smile. "Oh, sötnos. I'm going to miss you."

Raelle smiles back. "I know. Dumb question."

"No," Scylla corrects lightheartedly. "It's cute. I like it."

Suddenly, it's like everything else in the entire world fades away. It's just her and Scylla, separated only by a few mileously long feet, the air between them tense with possibility. It's like last fall all over again — only now Raelle's not just some shy, closeted freshman besotted with a mysterious girl with ocean blue eyes. She knows exactly who Scylla is — not a girl.

But not a monster, either. 

She wants to say, _I don't care who you are; I need you; I forgive you; and also, most importantly —_

"I love you."

And it's true.

And then Scylla's bridging the gap between them, she's leaning in —

 _Sweet_. Like always.

They fall into bed in a tangle of limbs; Scylla knocks all the clothes to the ground with an unceremonious sweep of her arm. She presses Raelle to the bed with a strong, purposeful kiss, her fingers scrambling to undo Raelle's belt. She pops open the button on Raelle's jeans, tugs down the zipper —

Her hand pushes inside Raelle's pants. Her seeking fingers find Raelle wet and needy. 

Raelle grips Scylla's shirt with one hand and the duvet with the other, twisting and gasping under her touch. They move together on the bed as one, Scylla's fingers quick and insistent. Her breathing comes hot and damp against Raelle's neck. She nips at Raelle's ear; it sends a little shiver down Raelle's back and she groans, arching up against Scylla's hand.

She's sparking; she's a blazing fire.

She comes with a shudder, her mouth pressed against Scylla's shoulder, muffling a cry.

With a tiny kiss, Scylla disentangles herself from Raelle's arms. She sits up, undoing the buttons on her cherry-patterned blouse, eyes dark with excitement. Raelle gazes up at her, dazed from her orgasm and awed by the sight above her: the tiny flush to Scylla's face; the constellations of freckles; her hair mussed and pushed back to one side, revealing the curve of her neck, framing her smart jawline.

They undress slowly. Raelle takes her time, making sure to drag her mouth over every inch of Scylla. If this really is the last evening they spend together, she wants to remember every second of it. She tries to memorize every freckle, every line and curve of Scylla's body. After tonight, it might be all she ever has left.

She presses light kisses all over Scylla's body until she's trembling and whimpering. Only then does Raelle relent, sliding down between Scylla's legs with a sly smile. 

Later, lying in the afterglow, the sheets pulled up around them, Scylla presses a kiss to Raelle's shoulder.

"You could come with me," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Be with me. Forever."

Raelle wants to say _yes_. She wants to say it so badly that it hurts like a physical pain in her chest. But she can't — it's too much all at once. She wishes so badly that she could be selfish, that she could throw all caution to the wind right now and just agree to Scylla's suggestion.

But she can't do that. Not to her dad. Not to her friends. There's people who need her.

Scylla seems to sense her trepidation. "Raelle — "

Raelle silences her with a gentle kiss. "I'm not saying I don't want it," she says soothingly. "But I need time to think."

Scylla nods. She trails her fingers along Raelle's jaw. "Whatever your decision . . . thank you. For forgiving me. For tonight."

"Don't get all sappy now," Raelle teases her gently. She kisses the top of Scylla's head.

Scylla huffs in exaggerated annoyance. "Fine, then." She shifts away a little, propping herself up on her elbow. "Maybe you should leave, then."

"Nah." Raelle rolls onto her side, arm curling around Scylla. She brushes their noses together. "The sun's not even up yet," she says. 

She kisses Scylla, long and slow, until she's needy again, wetness smearing on the insides of her thighs as she moves in even closer, drawing their bodies flush. She brings her hand up to cover Scylla's breast, feeling the nipple grow hard against her palm. Scylla's breath hitches as Raelle's thumb brushes against it; she tangles her hands in Raelle's hair when Raelle bows her head to take the nipple into her mouth, sucking languidly.

After a few long, arduous moments, Raelle brings her mouth up to Scylla's ear. "All those times we slept together," she whispers. "Sometimes I could feel the scrape of your teeth against my skin. And then I'd . . . it was _strange_. Like flying. Was that when you fed off me?"

She feels Scylla nod. "Yes."

Raelle's heart skips a beat. She's reckless with lust. "Could you — could you do it again?" 

Scylla pulls back. "What a strange girl you are," she remarks slowly, gazing at Raelle curiously. Then, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. You have my permission. Just this once." Raelle licks her lips, mouth cotton-dry. Her heart's racing with anticipation. "I know you won't hurt me."

Scylla stares a second longer. And then she smiles. It's a wide, slow grin. Raelle can see her canine teeth, sharp and protruding. She swallows, and notices the way Scylla watches the bob of her throat, deathly still. Raelle feels very much like a wounded bird being stalked by a hungry cat. A tiny, throaty growl escapes Scylla and Raelle can tell just how much she's restraining herself. 

"It's okay," she tells Scylla, splaying herself out on the bed in supplication. She reaches up to brush the hair from Scylla's eyes. "Go ahead."

In a second Scylla's half on top of her again, hand threaded between Raelle's thighs, fingers pushing _in_ , and her mouth is at Raelle's chest and her teeth sink down, and —

Raelle gasps, stars behind her eyelids. 

She's underwater. She's on the moon.

* * *

**SUMMERVILLE, SC | SUMMER OF 1989**

The next week, just before college is set to begin, Raelle takes a trip down to visit her dad.

Scylla provides the transportation; despite them having not seen each other since their heated tryst, Raelle comes home from work one day to find an envelope with plane tickets and a few large bills sitting on her pillow. _I'll be waiting_ it says on the front of the envelope, scrawled in Scylla's familiar handwriting.

Edwin's happy to see her. Despite the news of his illness, he doesn't look any worse for wear at all.

"It'll be a while, still," he tells Raelle over dinner. "Doctors say I probably got another five years in me. Give or take."

He's so blasé about it; Raelle can't bring herself to spoil his good mood. There'll be time later for serious discussions. Right now she just wants to enjoy the last vestiges of summer with her dad. 

On the evening before she's set to return to Danvers, she makes a point to visit her mom's grave. The air is thick with the scent of fresh cut grass and the sweetness of incoming rain. Raelle lays a tiny bouquet of carnations at the base of the headstone.

She's spent the entire week thinking about Scylla's offer.

_Forever._

She doesn't even know what that means. 

How can she know if it's what she wants?

* * *

**DANVERS, MA | AUTUMN OF 1989**

But in the end, the answer comes easily:

"Yes," Raelle tells Scylla, two days after she returns to school.

They're in Scylla's apartment; it feels like ages since Raelle was last here. Scylla's sitting on the couch while Raelle lingers a few feet from the door.

"I'll become like you," she clarifies, off Scylla's confused expression. "I want to be with you."

Scylla blinks, as if she hadn't actually believed Raelle would accept the offer. Her smile is slight, uncertain.

"Are you sure, Raelle?" she asks, her words edged with caution. "You know how I feel about you. With me, you'll experience many things, I promise. But there will also be much you'll miss out on, too. Things you might not even think you want right now; things you can't even imagine. Such a decision should not be made lightly. I love you; I couldn't bear for you to be unhappy because of me." Her voice wavers. Her smile falters a little. "Not ever again." 

Raelle knows. She's thought about it until she's given herself headaches. The fact is, simply: she loves Scylla. Maybe she's foolish or idealistic for wanting this. But she can't predict the future; she can only decide based on the facts as she has them now. And she'll have to live with whatever decision that is — through death and after. 

"There is one thing though," Raelle continues, feeling a tiny sting of guilt as Scylla's face falls. "My dad's sick. I don't know how long he has, but . . . I want to be there for him. I _need_ to be there for him. I need to be able to go to his funeral. You and I both know we can't if I'm . . . turned."

Scylla chews her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Right."

"All I'm saying is, I need time."

"I have plenty of that." Scylla laughs. It comes out shrill and forced. Then, gentler, she adds, "If you're asking me to wait, Raelle, I can do that. For however long as you want. But that comes with an unfortunate stipulation of its own, I'm afraid: I can't be near you. Not for very long, anyway."

Raelle frowns. "What do you mean?"

Scylla sighs. "I mean that we won't be able to be together. Until the day I turn you, we'll have to be apart."

"But," Raelle protests. "You don't know how long that could be! You can control yourself. I know it."

"Not forever." Scylla's shoulders slump further. "You don't understand. My hunger is ruthless — and I've tasted your blood. It would only be a matter of time." 

And as she's saying it, as much as Raelle wants to argue to the contrary, she knows that Scylla's only speaking the truth. As long as Raelle's human, she will always be a temptation to Scylla. She will always be in danger. There is no other way forward than this, as unfair and awful as it may be.

She thumbs the ring on her index finger, equal parts despair and resolve settling within her. She steps forward, slowly crossing the room and kneeling down in front of Scylla placatingly. 

"Promise me," she says, and, reaching for Scylla's hand, gives her the ring. One of the few things sent back with her mother's remains; Raelle's most treasured possession. She gently coaxes Scylla's fingers into a fist. "Say one day you'll come back for me. You won't abandon me. You won't . . . you won't forget me."

Scylla nods. Her eyes glisten. "I promise. One day."

She kisses Raelle, and it's like the world is ending.

*

When Raelle leaves, hours later, she doesn't allow herself to look back.

* * *

**SUMMERVILLE, SC | SPRING OF 1993**

After graduating, when Edwin starts getting really bad, Raelle moves back down to Summerville to help care for him.

It isn't easy; she didn't have any illusions that it would be, but she wasn't prepared for the true reality of the situation. Could have _never_ been prepared. Such an overwhelming sense of grief. Of helplessness. So many sleepless nights and days, times when she feels so hollow she thought she moved and spoke only out of habit. She hates to see her father like this, so weak and frail.

He was always so strong and full of life. But now he is like a stranger; she hardly recognizes him. She can feel him slipping further and further away with every strained breath.

Sometimes when it all gets to be too much — when Edwin begins spending more and more time in the hospital — she walks around at night. It's numbing, in an odd way. It helps clear her head.

She likes to be able to look up at the stars and search for the constellations Scylla taught her so many years ago out on the back porch of a fraternity. She thinks of Scylla, playful and flirty, stealing a kiss on the darkened street only a few blocks over. Her silvery laugh. The way her smile made Raelle feel warm all the way down to her toes. The promise of future happiness. 

Raelle hasn't seen her since their last kiss. Since that night when Scylla swore to return one day.

She doesn't allow herself to dwell on Scylla too much, though. Only for brief moments does she let her imagination wander, thinking about where Scylla is and what she's doing. Wondering if when she looks up at the night sky, she too remembers that blustery October evening.

*

Edwin dies in late May.

Two years longer than the doctors predicted; it's a cold comfort.

But a comfort nonetheless.

The service is a brief, quiet affair.

Raelle, grief-stricken and exhausted, shakes the hands of family members she hasn't seen since she was a little girl and thanks them for coming. His headstone — much like Willa's — is only a formality. A little memorial to come visit whenever she likes. She scatters his ashes into the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Parris Island, right along where they always used to bike.

This is what she remembers:

The three of them packed into Edwin's old Toyota truck, singing along to country songs as they sped down the highway upstate towards Myrtle Beach. The only time they'd ever gone. The wind in her mother's hair. The way her dad slung his arm over the back of the seat. Raelle crammed between them. 

Or the first time she snuck back home drunk — having been persuaded to come to a party by the pretty senior captain of her lacrosse team that she had an embarrassingly massive crush on — and the next morning her mother had blared the television extra loud, but her father fixed her pancakes and handed her a glass of water and two Advil with a wink. They'd had ice cream that night; sitting on the back porch, holding a dripping cone, Raelle nodded solemnly and promised not to do it again. 

Or that plain fall afternoon when the military officers arrived at their door and delivered the news of Willa's death, offering gentle platitudes to help soften the blow. The way Edwin nodded stoically until they left; he spent the rest of the weekend shut up in their — _his_ bedroom.

The next morning, she wakes up all alone in an empty house.

The silence is deafening. Crushing.

She wonders how long she'll have to wait.

* * *

**SUMMERVILLE, SC | AUTUMN OF 1993**

She's in the bathroom brushing her teeth when she hears the soft creaking of someone making their way up the porch stairs. It's later than she expected. She rinses her mouth out, taking a long moment to study her reflection in the mirror. She clicks the light out and pads into the living room.

The front door's still half-open; she's hoping to tempt a breeze. It's fall, but the weather has yet to slough off the summer heat in lieu of a more tolerable climate. Through the screen door, Raelle can see her: that familiar charming smile, those brilliant eyes still the same ocean-deep blue. Her loose maroon V-neck blouse is tucked into a pair of form-fitting black jeans. Her hair's pulled up into a messy bun. 

She was always so good at looking effortlessly casual.

It's been years, but Raelle's heart still turns over slowly in her chest at the sight of her.

"Scylla," she says.

She puts her hand up on the screen door; Scylla reaches up to press their palms together.

"'O, then, dear saint,'" Scylla recites jocosely. "'Let lips do what hands do.'" Then, with a smile: "You need to invite me in, sötnos."

Inside, Raelle watches her take in the house. It's much different from when she last visited; Raelle's stripped the wallpaper from the living room and opted for a pastel blue base with navy accents. She'd spent the entire summer remodeling the house. It was cathartic, replacing the old with new. It kept her mind off things — it kept her from being consumed with grief and nostalgia. In a way, too, it felt like she was honoring her father's memory; he had spoken for years about fixing the place up.

Scylla's eyes linger on the carefully arranged collage of photographs Raelle's hung up on one wall by the television. Raelle found most of them tucked away in boxes in her parents' room. She'd dusted them off, sorting through the stacks to find the best ones; the ones of the three of them together — sometimes a posed shot of them smiling and waving at the camera, other times a fleeting, candid moment captured forever with the click of a shutter. 

"I'm sorry about your father," Scylla says. Her fingers edge along one of the frames almost reverently. "I only knew him for a little while. But I liked him. He was kind. I would have come to the funeral, but . . . " 

"He always liked you," Raelle tells her. "He didn't know a lot of things, of course. But he thought you were good."

Scylla turns. She's toying with the ring on her left index finger — Willa's ring. The one Raelle gave her the last time they saw each other. 

When she speaks, her tone is light. "It was _you_ ," she tells Raelle. "You made me want to be better. You inspired me. It's always been you. And," she continues slowly, after a minute's pause, "I kept my promise. But now it's time."

Something flutters inside Raelle. She wets her lips as Scylla crosses the room and kneels down on one knee in front of her. 

"Are you ready, käresta?" Scylla's smile is delicate. Hopeful. She extends her hand. "Will you come with me, still?"

* * *

**KITTERY, ME | JUNE OF 1999**

_It's the same offer made to her, once._

_The choice is very different this time, though._

_Not one borne from hate or fear or desperation._

_But of love._

Raelle types the last few words, sinking back into her chair with a satisfied sigh. She stares at the screen for a few long moments, letting her eyes roam over the final paragraphs, a feeling of deep contentment settling over her. At long last, it's over; the story is finally complete. It's been nearly a year since she started. How quickly time has flown by — she doesn't think she'll ever get used to it. 

Writing has been a kind of time machine for her; every line she wrote seemed to magically transport her back to when she was in college. She could remember the sting of cold air against her face as she raced through campus, her lungs burning. She can still feel the thud of another body against hers, the stone walkway rising up to meet them; the flush of embarrassment; a hand in hers; a lilting, beautiful laugh.

And there, too, is the memory of love: as bright and warm as a summer day. 

As usual, she takes care to save two copies before clicking the word processor off.

There'll be time, later, for revisions. 

Right now she's ready to live wholly in the present.

*

The sun's just starting to set when Raelle makes her way downstairs and pads through the dining room to the back porch. The sky is set ablaze in a thousand hues of reds and golds and oranges. Above, the night sky looms in cotton candy shades of pink and blue, stars beginning to flicker into view.

A little ways from the porch, the waves lap gently against the shore. The tide's coming in; soon it'll be right up the small stone wall that separates the freshly-trimmed lawn from the beach. A cool breeze skims along the water, a reminder that summer's not quite arrived just yet.

A sense of peace swells in Raelle as she leans against the doorway, taking in the view.

"Well?" Scylla asks, from where she's stretched out on the porch swing, a thin blanket strewn over her lap. She peers at Raelle over the top of her book, a well-worn copy of Camus's _The Just Assassins_. "Did you finally finish it?"

She straightens up so that Raelle can sit beside her on the swing; it rocks gently under the new weight.

"It's finished," Raelle confirms. "It feels strange though — being done. Like saying goodbye to an old friend."

Scylla nods. She marks her place in her book, setting it aside. "What are you going to do now?"

Raelle's asked herself the same question a dozen times by now; she still hasn't been able to come to a conclusion. "I don't know. Try to publish it one day, perhaps. Anonymously, of course. People might recognize some of the finer details." She flashes Scylla a rueful smile. "But, who knows?"

"There's no need to rush," Scylla says, matter-of-factly. "You've got all the time in the world to decide."

It hasn't even been a decade since she was turned, but, to Raelle, it already feels like an entire lifetime ago. She can't picture herself only twenty or thirty years from now, let alone much, _much_ longer than that. _Forever_ — what a strange concept. She can't even begin to imagine it.

For a moment, it makes her melancholic. 

"A hundred years. A thousand." She pauses. "No one will remember us."

Scylla reaches for her hand, threading their fingers together. She leans in and kisses Raelle, long and slow. Even now, kissing her is as sweet as the first time.

"I don't care if everyone forgets," she murmurs in dulcet tones, against Raelle's mouth. "As long as I have you."

Raelle grins. She squeezes Scylla's hand, kissing her again. "Come on," she says, climbing to her feet, feeling fully and wondrously alive. "It's almost night."

There's still so much of the world left for them to explore.

* * *

i have been in love with no one, and never shall, unless it should be with you.  
— _carmilla_ , joseph sheridan le fanu

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The title is from Holly Black's short story "Millcara", a modern day re-telling of the novella.  
>  2\. "We gave half the day to the night" is lovingly borrowed from NBC's 2013 adaptation of _Dracula_.  
>  3\. sötnos = sweetie, cutie (lit. sweet nose); Swedish origin  
>  4\. käresta = darling; Swedish origin  
>  5\. édesem = sweetheart, honey; Hungarian origin  
>  6\. lekker ding = lit. sweet/tasty thing (informal: good looking); Dutch origin  
>  7\. A Skogsrå is a female being in Norse mythology similar to a succubus.  
>  8\. The unnamed redhead who flirts with Raelle is Photia from [how to love a black hole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472446).
> 
> Thank you sincerely to [99bad_habits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/99bad_habits/) & [scarromanoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarromanoff/) for volunteering to beta and also to [holeybubushka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holeybubushka), whose passion for vampire stories very much rivals my own and who originally persuaded me to write this story.


End file.
